Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had caught in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress's luggage, so that now Isabel was at liberty to leave the station.
"You know you are not to think of going to the country to-night," Henrietta remarked to her. "It doesn't matter whether there is a train or not. You are to come straight to me, in Wimpole Street. There isn't a corner to be had in London, but I have got you one all the same. It isn't a Roman palace, but it will do for a night."
"I will do whatever you wish," Isabel said.
"You will come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish."
"She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?" Mr. Bantling inquired jocosely.
Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. "I see you are in a great hurry to get to your own. You will be at the Paddington station to-morrow morning at ten."
"Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel.
"He will come for mine," Henrietta declared, as she ushered Isabel into a cab.
Later, in a large, dusky parlour in Wimpole Street—to do her justice, there had been dinner enough—she asked Isabel those questions to which she had alluded at the station.
"Did your husband make a scene about your coming?" That was Miss Stackpole's first inquiry.
"No; I can't say he made a scene."
"He didn't object then?"
"Yes; he objected very much. But it was not what you would call a scene."
