"Yes," she said, "London's lonely!" and sighed.

"My eldest was bitten by a dog the other day," he went on in the vein of gossip.

"Oh, don't!" she protested.

"Yes. Gave us a lot of anxiety. All right now! You might like to know that cyanide gauze is a good thing to put on a wound--supposing anything should happen to yours--"

"Oh, don't!" she protested. "I do hope and pray Robert will never be bitten by a dog. Was it a big dog?"

"Fair," said Edward Henry. "So his name's Robert! So's my eldest's!"

"Really now! They wanted him to be called Robert Philip Stephen Darrand Patrick. But I wouldn't have it. He's just Robert. I did have my own way _there_! You know he was born six months after his father's death."

"And I suppose he's ten months now?"

"No; only six."

"Great Scott! He's big!" said Edward Henry.

"Well," said she, "he is. I am, you see."

"Now, Lady Woldo," said Edward Henry in a new tone, "as we're both from the same part of the country, I want to be perfectly straight and above board with you. It's quite true--all that about the rash. And I _did_ think you'd like to know. But that's not really what I came to see you about. You understand, not knowing you, I fancied there might be some difficulty in getting at you--"

"Oh, no!" she said simply. "Everybody gets at me."

"Well, I didn't know, you see. So I just mentioned the baby to begin with, like!"

"I hope you're not after money," she said almost plaintively.

"I'm not," he said. "You can ask anybody in Bursley or Hanbridge whether I'm the sort of man to go out on the cadge."

"I once was in the chorus in a panto at Hanbridge," she said. "Don't they call Bursley 'Bosley' down there--'owd Bosley'?"

Edward Henry dealt suitably with these remarks, and then gave her a judicious version of the nature of his business, referring several time to Mr. Rollo Wrissell.

"Mr. Wrissell!" she murmured, smiling.

"In the end I told Mr. Wrissell to go and bury himself," said Edward Henry. "And that's about as far as I've got."

"Oh, don't!" she said, her voice weak from suppressed laughter, and then the laughter burst forth uncontrollable.

"Yes," he said, delighted with himself and her, "I told him to go and bury himself!"

"I suppose you don't like Mr. Wrissell?"

"Well--" he temporised.

"I didn't at first," she said. "I hated him. But I like him now, though I must say I adore teasing him. Mr. Wrissell is what I call a gentleman. You know he was Lord Woldo's heir. And when Lord Woldo married me it was a bit of a blow for him! But he took it like a lamb.

He never turned a hair, and he was more polite than any of them. I dare say you know Lord Woldo saw me in a musical comedy at Scarborough--he has a place near there, ye know. Mr. Wrissell had made him angry about some of his New Thought fads, and I do believe he asked me to marry him just to annoy Mr. Wrissell. He used to say to me, my husband did, that he'd married me in too much of a hurry, and that it was too bad on Mr.

Wrissell. And then he laughed, and I laughed too. 'After all,' he used to say, my husband did, 'to marry an actress is an accident that might happen to any member of the House of Lords; and it does happen to a lot of 'em, but they don't marry anything as beautiful as you, Blanche,' he used to say. 'And you stick up for yourself, Blanche,' he used to say.

'I'll stand by you,' he said. He was a straight 'un, my husband was.

"They left me alone until he died. And then they began--I mean _his_ folks. And when Bobby was born it got worse. Only I must say even then Mr. Wrissell never turned a hair. Everybody seemed to make out that I ought to be very grateful to him, and I ought to think myself very lucky. Me--a peeress of the realm! They wanted me to change. But how could I change? I was Blanche Wilmot, on the road for ten years,--never got a show in London,--and Blanche Wilmot I shall ever be, peeress or no peeress! It was no joke being Lord Woldo's wife, I can tell you; and it's still less of a joke being Lord Woldo's mother. You imagine it.

It's worse than carrying about a china vase all the time on a slippery floor. Am I any happier now than I was before I married? Well, I _am_!

There's more worry in one way, but there's less in another. And of course I've got Bobby! But it isn't all beer and skittles, and I let 'em know it, too. I can't do what I like. And I'm just a sort of exile, you know. I used to enjoy being on the stage, and showing myself off.

A hard life, but one does enjoy it. And one gets used to it. One gets to need it. Sometimes I feel I'd give anything to be able to go on the stage again--oh--oh--!"

She sneezed; then took breath.

"Shall I put some more coal on the fire?" Edward Henry suggested.

"Perhaps I'd better ring," she hesitated.

"No, I'll do it."

He put coal on the fire.

"And if you'd feel easier with that flannel round your head, please do put it on again."

"Well," she said, "I will. My mother used to say there was naught like red flannel for a cold."

With an actress' skill she arranged the flannel, and from its encircling folds her face emerged bewitching--and she knew it. Her complexion had suffered in ten years of the road, but its extreme beauty could not yet be denied. And Edward Henry thought: "All the _really_ pretty girls come from the Midlands!"

"Here I am rambling on," she said. "I always was a rare rambler. What do you want me to do?"

"Exert your influence," he replied. "Don't you think it's rather hard on Rose Euclid--treating her like this? Of course people say all sorts of things about Rose Euclid--"

"I won't hear a word against Rose Euclid," cried Lady Woldo. "Whenever she was on tour, if she knew any of us were resting in the town where she was, she'd send us seats. And many's the time I've cried and cried at her acting. And then she's the life and soul of the Theatrical Ladies' Guild."

"And isn't that your husband's signature?" he demanded, showing the precious option.

"Of course it is."

He did not show her the covering letter.

"And I've no doubt my husband _wanted_ a theatre built there, and he wanted to do Rose Euclid a good turn. And I'm quite positive certain sure that he didn't want any of Mr. Wrissell's rigmaroles on his land.

He wasn't that sort, my husband wasn't.... You must go to law about it," she finished.

"Yes," said Edward Henry protestingly. "And a pretty penny it would cost me! And supposing I lost, after all? ... You never know. There's a much easier way than going to law."

"What is it?"

"As I say, you exert your influence, Lady Woldo. Write and tell them I've seen you and you insist--"

"Eh! Bless you! They'd twist me round their little finger. I'm not a fool, but I'm not very clever; I know that. I shouldn't know whether I was standing on my head or my heels by the time they'd done with me.

I've tried to face them out before--about things."

"Who, Mr. Wrissell or Slossons?"