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White Turrets
White Turrets
Chapter One.
“Hertha.”
A dull afternoon in November. In London, too, where, though bright and beautiful November days are not utterly unknown, they are, it must be allowed, the exception.
A not very lively scene indoors either.
A large – too large for the present purpose at least – concert-room in a public building, very far from well filled, and somewhat dimly lighted; the dimness aggravated by a suspicion of fog.
“Rather an unlucky day, I fear,” said one lady to her next neighbour. “Still, at this season, what can one expect?”
“And after all,” was the reply, “the dull season is the best for charity things. People – such of them as are in town – are glad of something to do.”
For the concert was one for a benevolent object, not seemingly a very popular one, or possibly merely but little known. It had been difficult to collect the performers, more difficult to obtain the lady patronesses, most difficult of all to sell the tickets. And as a natural consequence, but few had been sold.
“The programme is a very fair one,” resumed the first speaker, glancing at it as she spoke.
“I’m glad you think so,” replied the other lady, who had had some hand in getting up the concert. “That last violin solo was a little too long.”
“Perhaps so – but still – the audience was very attentive; more than attentive indeed. Just look at those two girls – I have been watching their faces. They seem quite absorbed and delighted. Look at them now. What pretty girls they are, too!”
Mrs Balderson – for such was the name of the second speaker – smiled. Her companion’s remarks pleased her.