Like a breeze tuning through the frigid silence of a fog, a high, clear
voice was heard:

"Oh, thanks; I'll go up in the brougham."

Followed by the first footman carrying her wraps, and muffled in a white
veil, through which the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow's leisurely gaze caught
the gleam of eyes, a lady stepped forward, and with a backward glance
vanished into the brougham. Her head appeared again behind the swathe of
gauze.

"There's plenty of room, George."

George Pendyce walked quickly forward, and disappeared beside her. There
was a crunch of wheels; the brougham rolled away.

The Hon. Geoffrey Winlow raised his face again.

"Who was that, Benson?"

The coachman leaned over confidentially, holding his podgy white-gloved
hand outspread on a level with the Hon. Geoffrey's hat.

"Mrs. Jaspar Bellew, sir. Captain Bellew's lady, of the Firs."

"But I thought they weren't---"

"No, sir; they're not, sir."