"Then what will she do?"
Sir Claude puffed his cigarette. "She's quickly thinking." He appeared
to enjoy it.
Ida had wavered but an instant; her companion clearly gave her moral
support. Maisie thought he somehow looked brave, and he had no likeness
whatever to Mr. Perriam. His face, thin and rather sharp, was smooth,
and it was not till they came nearer that she saw he had a remarkably
fair little moustache. She could already see that his eyes were of the
lightest blue. He was far nicer than Mr. Perriam. Mamma looked terrible
from afar, but even under her guns the child's curiosity flickered and
she appealed again to Sir Claude. "Is it--IS it Lord Eric?"
Sir Claude smoked composedly enough. "I think it's the Count."
This was a happy solution--it fitted her idea of a count. But what idea,
as she now came grandly on, did mamma fit?--unless that of an actress,
in some tremendous situation, sweeping down to the footlights as if she
would jump them. Maisie felt really so frightened that before she knew
it she had passed her hand into Sir Claude's arm. Her pressure caused
him to stop, and at the sight of this the other couple came equally to
a stand and, beyond the diminished space, remained a moment more in
talk. This, however, was the matter of an instant; leaving the Count
apparently to come round more circuitously--an outflanking movement, if
Maisie had but known--her ladyship resumed the onset. "What WILL she do
now?" her daughter asked.
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