CHAPTER II
It was a perfect June evening: Doris was seated on one of the spreading
lawns of Crosby Ledgers,--a low Georgian house, much added to at various
times, and now a pleasant medley of pillared verandahs, tiled roofs,
cupolas, and dormer windows, apparently unpretending, but, as many
people knew, one of the most luxurious of English country houses.
Lady Dunstable, in a flowing dress of lilac crepe and a large black hat,
had just given Mrs. Meadows a second cup of tea, and was clearly doing
her duty--and showing it--to a guest whose entertainment could not be
trusted to go of itself. The only other persons at the tea-table--the
Meadowses having arrived late--were an elderly man with long Dundreary
whiskers, in a Panama hat and a white waistcoat, and a lady of uncertain
age, plump, kind-eyed, and merry-mouthed, in whom Doris had at once
divined a possible harbour of refuge from the terrors of the situation.
Arthur was strolling up and down the lawn with the Home Secretary,
smoking and chatting--talking indeed nineteen to the dozen, and entirely
at his ease.
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