“Well,” she said, “I will.  My mother used to say there was naught like red flannel for a cold.”

With an actress’s skill she arranged the flannel, and from its encircling folds her face emerged bewitching—­and she knew it.  Her complexion had suffered in ten years of the road, but its extreme beauty could not yet be denied.  And Edward Henry thought: 

“All the really pretty girls come from the Midlands!”

“Here I am rambling on,” she said.  “I always was a rare rambler.  What do you want me to do?”

“Exert your influence,” he replied.  “Don’t you think it’s rather hard on Rose Euclid—­treating her like this?  Of course people say all sorts of things about Rose Euclid—­”

“I won’t hear a word against Rose Euclid,” cried Lady Woldo.  “Whenever she was on tour, if she knew any of us were resting in the town where she was she’d send us seats.  And many’s the time I’ve cried and cried at her acting.  And then she’s the life and soul of the Theatrical Ladies’ Guild.”

“And isn’t that your husband’s signature?” he demanded, showing the precious option.

“Of course it is.”

He did not show her the covering letter.

“And I’ve no doubt my husband wanted a theatre built there, and he wanted to do Rose Euclid a good turn.  And I’m quite positive certain sure that he didn’t want any of Mr. Wrissell’s rigmaroles on his land.  He wasn’t that sort, my husband wasn’t....  You must go to law about it,” she finished.

“Yes,” said Edward Henry, protestingly.  “And a pretty penny it would cost me!  And supposing I lost, after all?...  You never know.  There’s a much easier way than going to law,”

“What is it?”

“As I say—­you exert your influence, Lady Woldo.  Write and tell them I’ve seen you and you insist—­”

“Eh!  Bless you!  They’d twist me round their little finger.  I’m not a fool, but I’m not very clever—­I know that.  I shouldn’t know whether I was standing on my head or my heels by the time they’d done with me.  I’ve tried to face them out before—­about things.”

“Who—­Mr. Wrissell, or Slossons?”

“Both?  Eh, but I should like to put a spoke in Mr. Wrissell’s wheel—­gentleman as he is.  You see he’s just one of those men you can’t help wanting to tease.  When you’re on the road you meet lots of ’em.”

“I tell you what you can do!”

“What?”

“Write and tell Slossons that you don’t wish them to act for you any more, and you’ll go to another firm of solicitors.  That would bring ’em to their senses.”

“Can’t!  They’re in the will. He settled that.  That’s why they’re so cocky.”

Edward Henry persisted—­and this time with an exceedingly impressive and conspiratorial air: 

“I tell you another thing you could do—­you really could do—­and it depends on nobody but yourself.”

“Well,” she said with decision.  “I’ll do it.”