On the whole, it was a relief to break away now and then from the Sabrina; and the Duchess’s little breakfast, organized by Lord Hubert with all his usual virtuosity, was the pleasanter to Lily for not including her travelling-companions. Dorset, of late, had grown more than usually morose and incalculable, and Ned Silverton went about with an air that seemed to challenge the universe. The freedom and lightness of the ducal intercourse made an agreeable change from these complications, and Lily was tempted, after luncheon, to adjourn in the wake of her companions to the hectic atmosphere of the Casino. She did not mean to play; her diminished pocket-money offered small scope for the adventure; but it amused her to sit on a divan, under the doubtful protection of the Duchess’s back, while the latter hung above her stakes at a neighbouring table.
The rooms were packed with the gazing throng which, in the afternoon hours, trickles heavily between the tables, like the Sunday crowd in a lion-house. In the stagnant flow of the mass, identities were hardly distinguishable; but Lily presently saw Mrs. Bry cleaving her determined way through the doors, and, in the broad wake she left, the light figure of Mrs. Fisher bobbing after her like a row-boat at the stern of a tug. Mrs. Bry pressed on, evidently animated by the resolve to reach a certain point in the rooms; but Mrs. Fisher, as she passed Lily, broke from her towing-line, and let herself float to the girl’s side.
“Lose her?” she echoed the latter’s query, with an indifferent glance at Mrs. Bry’s retreating back. “I daresay–it doesn’t matter: I have lost her already.” And, as Lily exclaimed, she added: “We had an awful row this morning. You know, of course, that the Duchess chucked her at dinner last night, and she thinks it was my fault–my want of management. The worst of it is, the message–just a mere word by telephone–came so late that the dinner had to be paid for; and Becassin had run it up–it had been so drummed into him that the Duchess was coming!” Mrs. Fisher indulged in a faint laugh at the remembrance. “Paying for what she doesn’t get rankles so dreadfully with Louisa: I can’t make her see that it’s one of the preliminary steps to getting what you haven’t paid for–and as I was the nearest thing to smash, she smashed me to atoms, poor dear!”
Lily murmured her commiseration. Impulses of sympathy came naturally to her, and it was instinctive to proffer her help to Mrs. Fisher.
“If there’s anything I can do–if it’s only a question of meeting the Duchess! I heard her say she thought Mr. Bry amusing–-”
But Mrs. Fisher interposed with a decisive gesture. “My dear, I have my pride: the pride of my trade. I couldn’t manage the Duchess, and I can’t palm off your arts on Louisa Bry as mine. I’ve taken the final step: I go to Paris tonight with the Sam Gormers. They’re still in the elementary stage; an Italian Prince is a great deal more than a Prince to them, and they’re always on the brink of taking a courier for one. To save them from that is my present mission.” She laughed again at the picture. “But before I go I want to make my last will and testament–I want to leave you the Brys.”
“Me?” Miss Bart joined in her amusement. “It’s charming of you to remember me, dear; but really–-”
“You’re already so well provided for?” Mrs. Fisher flashed a sharp glance at her. “Are you, though, Lily–to the point of rejecting my offer?”
Miss Bart coloured slowly. “What I really meant was, that the Brys wouldn’t in the least care to be so disposed of.”
Mrs. Fisher continued to probe her embarrassment with an unflinching eye. “What you really meant was that you’ve snubbed the Brys horribly; and you know that they know–-” “Carry!”
“Oh, on certain sides Louisa bristles with perceptions. If you’d even managed to have them asked once on the Sabrina–especially when royalties were coming! But it’s not too late,” she ended earnestly, “it’s not too late for either of you.”