“A lady!” says Twemlow, pluming his ruffled feathers. “Ask the favour of the lady’s name.”
The lady’s name is Lammle. The lady will not detain Mr. Twemlow longer than a very few minutes. The lady is sure that Mr. Twemlow will do her the kindness to see her, on being told that she particularly desires a short interview. The lady has no doubt whatever of Mr. Twemlow’s compliance when he hears her name. Has begged the servant to be particular not to mistake her name. Would have sent in a card, but has none.
“Show the lady in.” Lady shown in, comes in.
Mr. Twemlow’s little rooms are modestly furnished, in an old-fashioned manner (rather like the housekeeper’s room at Snigsworthy Park), and would be bare of mere ornament, were it not for a full-length engraving of the sublime Snigsworth over the chimneypiece, snorting at a Corinthian column, with an enormous roll of paper at his feet, and a heavy curtain going to tumble down on his head; those accessories being understood to represent the noble lord as somehow in the act of saving his country.
“Pray take a seat, Mrs. Lammle.” Mrs. Lammle takes a seat and opens the conversation.
“I have no doubt, Mr. Twemlow, that you have heard of a reverse of fortune having befallen us. Of course you have heard of it, for no kind of news travels so fast—among one’s friends especially.”
Mindful of the wondering dinner, Twemlow, with a little twinge, admits the imputation.
“Probably it will not,” says Mrs. Lammle, with a certain hardened manner upon her, that makes Twemlow shrink, “have surprised you so