herself; her claws clutched round what looked like a dirty boot-bag.
But just at that moment there was Mrs. Raddick again with—her—and another lady hovering in the background. Mrs. Raddick rushed at me. She was brightly flushed, gay, a different creature. She was like a woman who is saying “good-bye” to her friends on the station platform, with not a minute to spare before the train starts.
“Oh, you’re here, still. Isn’t that lucky! You’ve not gone. Isn’t that fine! I’ve had the most dreadful time with—her,” and she waved to her daughter, who stood absolutely still, disdainful, looking down, twiddling her foot on the step, miles away. “They won’t let her in. I swore she was twenty-one. But they won’t believe me. I showed the man my purse; I didn’t dare to do more. But it was no use. He simply scoffed. . . . And now I’ve just met Mrs. MacEwen from New York, and she just won thirteen thousand in the Salle Privée—and she wants me to go back with her while the luck lasts. Of course I can’t leave—her. But if you’d”
At that “she” looked up; she simply withered her mother. “Why can’t you leave me?” she said furiously. “What utter rot! How dare you make a scene like this? This is the last time I’ll come out with you. You really are too awful for words.”
