BROKEN WINGS
that hour of night that morning scarce knows, and it took but little more of the breath of the real to suggest to Lady Claude more questions in such a connection than she could answer for herself. "How, then, if you haven't private means, do you get on?"
"Ah! I don't get on."
Lady Claude looked about. There were objects scattered in the fine old French room. "You have lovely things."
"Two."
"Two?"
"Two frocks. I couldn't stay another day."
"Ah, what is that? I couldn't either," said Lady Claude soothingly. "And you have," she continued, in the same spirit, "your nice maid———"
"Who's indeed a charming woman, but my cook in disguise!" Mrs. Harvey dropped.
"Ah, you are clever!" her friend cried, with a laugh that was as a climax of reassurance.
"Extraordinarily. But don't think," Mrs. Harvey hastened to add, "that I mean that that's why I'm here."
Her companion candidly thought. "Then why are you?"
"I haven't the least idea. I've been wondering all the while, as I've wondered so often before on such occasions, and without arriving at any other reason than that London is so wild."
Lady Claude wondered. "Wild?"
"Wild!" said her friend, with some impatience. "That's the way London strikes."
"But do you call such an invitation a blow?"
"Yes—crushing. No one else, at all events, either," Mrs. Harvey added, "could tell you why I'm here."
Lady Claude's power to receive—and it was perhaps her most attaching quality—was greater still, when she felt strongly, than her power to protest. "Why, how
7
