Every one, from the manager down to the boy
who pared potatoes, laid himself out to make the occasion a memorable
one.
The millionaire's table was placed in the very centre of the dining-
room, and plates were laid for eight. At the last minute, Mr.
Blithers ordered the number increased to nine.
"My daughter may put in an appearance," he explained to Lady Simpson.
"I have left word at the hotel for her to come up if by any chance
she happens to arrive on the evening train."
"Haven't you heard from her, Mr. Blithers?" inquired the austere
lady, regarding the top of his head with an illy-directed lorgnon.
They were entering the long, low dining-room. Mr. Blithers resented
the scrutiny: It was lofty and yet stooping. She seemed to be looking
down upon him at right angles, due no doubt to her superior height
and to the fact that she had taken his arm.
"We have," said he, "but not definitely. She is likely to pop in on
us at any moment, and then again she's likely not to. My daughter is
a very uncertain person, Lady Simpson.
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