’Undine Spragg—how can you?’ her mother wailed, raising a prematurely-wrinkled hand heavy with rings to defend the note which a languid ’bell-boy’ had just brought in.But her defence was as feeble as her protest, and she continued to smile on her visitor while Miss Spragg, with a turn of her quick young fingers, possessed herself of the missive and withdrew to the window to read it.’I guess it’s meant for me, ’ she merely threw over her shoulder at her mother.’Did you EVER, Mrs. Heeny?’ Mrs. Spragg murmured with deprecating pride.Mrs. Heeny, a stout professional-looking person in a waterproof, her rusty veil thrown back, and a shabby alligator bag at her feet, followed the mother’s glance with good-humoured approval.’I never met with a lovelier form, ’ she agreed, answering the spirit rather than the letter of her hostess’s enquiry.Mrs. Spragg and her visitor were enthroned in two heavy gilt armchairs in one of the private drawing-rooms of the Hotel Stentorian. The Spragg rooms were known as one of the Looey suites, and the drawing-room walls, above their wainscoting of highly-varnished mahogany, were hung with salmon-pink damask and adorned with oval portraits of Marie Antoinette and the Princess de Lamballe.
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