“Vulgar!”

His rubicundity had increased and his blandness was dissolved.  A terrible sequel might have occurred, had not the crunch of wheels on the drive been heard at that very instant.  The huge, dim form of a coach drawn by a ghostly horse passed along towards the front door, just below the diners.  Almost simultaneously the electric light above the front door was turned on, casting a glare across a section of the inchoate garden, where no flower grew save the dandelion.  Everybody sprang up.  Host and hostess, urged by hospitality, spun first into the drive, and came level with the vehicle precisely as the vehicle opened its invisible interior.  Jane Foley and Audrey saw Miss Nickall emerge from it rather slowly and cautiously, with her white kind face and her arm all swathed in white.

“Well, Mr. Spatt,” came the American benevolent voice of Nick.  “How glad I am to see you.  And this is Mrs. Spatt?  Mrs. Spatt!  Delighted.  Your husband is the kindest, sweetest man, Mrs. Spatt, that I’ve met in years.  It is perfectly sweet of you to have me.  I shouldn’t have inflicted myself on you—­no, I shouldn’t—­only you know we have to obey orders.  I was told to come here, and here I’ve come, with a glad heart.”

Audrey was touched by the sight and voice of grey-haired Nick, with her trick of seeing nothing but the best in everybody, transforming everybody into saints, angels, and geniuses.  Her smiles and her tones were irresistible.  They were like the wand of some magical princess come to break a sinister thrall.  They nearly humanised the gaunt parlourmaid, who stood grimly and primly waiting until these tedious sentimental preliminaries should cease from interfering with her duties in regard to the luggage.

“We have friends of yours here, Miss Nickall,” simpered Mrs. Spatt, after she had given a welcome.  She had seen Jane Foley and Audrey standing expectant just behind Mr. Spatt, and outside the field of the electric beam.

Nick glanced round, hesitated, and then with a sudden change of all her features rushed at the girls regardless of her arm.  Her joy was enchanting.

“I was afraid—­I was afraid——­” she murmured as she kissed them.  Her eyes softly glistened.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, after a moment.  “And I have got a surprise for you!  I have just!  You may say it’s some surprise.”  She turned towards the cab.  “Musa, now do come out of that wagon.”

And from the blackness of the cab’s interior gingerly stepped Musa, holding a violin case in his hand.

“Mrs. Spatt,” said Nick.  “Let me introduce Mr. Musa.  Mr. Musa is perhaps the greatest violinist in Paris—­or in Europe.  Very old friend of ours.  He came over to London unexpectedly just as I was starting for Liverpool Street station this afternoon.  So I did the only thing I could do.  I couldn’t leave him there—­I brought him along, and we want Mr. Spatt to recommend us an hotel in Frinton for him.”  And while Musa was shyly in his imperfect English greeting Mr. and Mrs. Spatt, she whispered to Audrey:  “You don’t know.  You’d never guess.  A big concert agent in Paris has taken him up at last.  He’s going to play at a lot of concerts, and they actually paid him two thousand five hundred francs in advance.  Isn’t it a perfect dream?”