They had come to the motor by this time--the rich, the noble motor, as
Mr Pepys would have described it--and there was poor Miss Lyall hung
with parcels, and wearing a faint sycophantic smile. This miserable
spinster, of age so obvious as to be called not the least uncertain,
was Lady Ambermere's companion, and shared with her the glories of The
Hall, which had been left to Lady Ambermere for life. She was provided
with food and lodging and the use of the cart like a hip-bath when Lady
Ambermere had errands for her to do in Riseholme, so what could a woman
want more? In return for these bounties, her only duty was to devote
herself body and mind to her patroness, to read the paper aloud, to set
Lady Ambermere's patterns for needlework, to carry the little Chinese
dog under her arm, and wash him once a week, to accompany Lady
Ambermere to church, and never to have a fire in her bedroom. She had a
melancholy wistful little face: her head was inclined with a backward
slope on her neck, and her mouth was invariably a little open shewing
long front teeth, so that she looked rather like a roast hare sent up
to table with its head on. Georgie always had a joke ready for Miss
Lyall, of the sort that made her say, "Oh, Mr Pillson!" and caused her
to blush. She thought him remarkably pleasant.

Georgie had his joke ready on this occasion.

"Why, here's Miss Lyall!" he said. "And what has Miss Lyall been doing
while her ladyship and I have been talking? Better not ask, perhaps."

"Oh, Mr Pillson!" said Miss Lyall, as punctually as a cuckoo clock when
the hands point to the hour.

Lady Ambermere put half her weight onto the step of the motor, causing
it to creak and sway.