Mrs. Crofton made no answer to this, and Janet, who was looking at her, saw her face alter.  A curious expression of—­was it pain?—­it looked more like fear,—­came over it.  It was clear that Dolly’s thoughtless words had hurt her.

Suddenly there came the sound of a tap on the pane of one of the windows, and Mrs. Crofton, whose nerves were evidently very much out of order, gave a suppressed cry.

“It’s only Timmy,” said Timmy’s mother reassuringly, and then she went and opened the window.  “I hope you’ve shut Flick up,” she said in a low voice.

“Of course I have, Mum.  He’s quite quiet now.”

As the boy came forward, into the room, he looked straight up into Mrs. Crofton’s face, and as she met the enquiring, alien look, she told herself, for the second time that evening, what a pity it was that these nice people should have such an unpleasant child.

Tom came in to say that the pony cart was at the door, and that Jack was waiting there for Mrs. Crofton.

They all went out in the hall to see her off.  It was a bright, beautiful, moonlight night, and Rosamund thought the scene quite romantic.

Mr. Tosswill handed his guest into the pony cart with his usual, rather aloof, courtesy; and after all the good-byes had been said, and as Jack drove down the long, solitary avenue, Enid Crofton told herself that in spite of that horrible incident with the dog—­it was so strange that Flick should come, as it were, to haunt her out of her old life, the life she was so anxious to forget—­she had had a very promising and successful evening.  The only jarring note had been that horrid little boy Timmy—­Timmy and his hateful dog.

And then suddenly Enid Crofton asked herself whether Godfrey Radmore was likely to go on being as fond of Timmy Tosswill as he seemed to be now.  She had been surprised at the reminiscent affection with which he had spoken of his little godson.  But there is a great difference between an attractive baby-child of three and a forward, spoilt, undersized boy of twelve.  About a week ago, while they were enjoying a delicious little dinner in the Berkeley Hotel grill-room, he had said:—­“Although of course none of them know it, for the present at any rate, Master Timmy is my heir; if I were to die to-night Timmy Tosswill would become a very well-to-do young gentleman!”

Even at the time they had been uttered, the careless words had annoyed Enid Crofton; and now the recollection of them made her feel quite angry.  All her life long money had played a great part in this very pretty woman’s inmost thoughts.

CHAPTER VI

Betty Tosswill sat up in bed and told herself that it was Friday morning.  Then she remembered what it was that was going to happen to-day.