"Conservative Club, I suppose?" she said, with
an air deliciously confidential.
He, too, smiled.
"Oh, no," she said, after a little pause; "just tell him I've called."
"Certainly, madam. Nothing I can do?"
She was already turning away, but she turned back and scrutinised his
face, as Denry thought, roguishly.
"You might just give him this list," she said, taking a paper from her
satchel and spreading it. She had come to the desk; their elbows
touched. "He isn't to take any notice of the crossings-out in red ink--
you understand? Of course, I'm relying on him for the other lists, and I
expect all the invitations to be out on Wednesday. Good-morning."
She was gone. He sprang to the grimy window. Outside, in the snow, were
a brougham, twin horses, twin men in yellow, and a little crowd of
youngsters and oldsters. She flashed across the footpath, and vanished;
the door of the carriage banged, one of the twins in yellow leaped up to
his brother, and the whole affair dashed dangerously away. The face of
the leaping twin was familiar to Denry. The man had, indeed, once
inhabited Brougham Street, being known to the street as Jock, and his
mother had for long years been a friend of Mrs Machin's.
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