“Hotel Ritz!” Chapter XXXI ANNA’S TEA PARTY “I suppose you haven’t the least idea who I am,” Lady Lescelles said, as she settled herself in Anna’s most comfortable chair. Blueskin, you are a true friend. The imbecile. " Not a little perplexed by the mysterious object she had seen, Rachel left the room, and, shortly afterwards returned with the materials of a tolerably good supper;—to wit, a couple of cold fowls, a tongue, the best part of a sirloin of beef, a jar of pickles, and two small dishes of pastry. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. "He's a base, deceitful, tyrannical, hoary-headed libertine—that's what he is. Sheppard, fixing her glazing eyes upon him. I am not French in the least. The palanquin is hired and so is the procession. We hide it bravely, but so it is. " "Then I owe my life to her?" "Positively. Meanwhile, she was spirited away from John and bombarded by half-familiar people who attempted to chat with her above the roar of the crowd. I was in Lancashire, at our family seat, at the time you mention. He had made himself master of the layout of the house, that was plain.
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