A loud explosion interrupted these agreeable reflections and the car drew up. A tyre had burst, but they carried an extra wheel, and though the delay seemed terribly long they were soon on their way again. They traversed another ten miles, and now in the north-east the smouldering glow of London reddened the toneless hue of the summer night. The stars burned bright, and she pictured Pepino at his telescope--no, Pepino had a really bad cold, and would not be at his telescope. Then there came another explosion--was it those disgusting stars in their courses that were fighting against her?--and again the car drew up by the side of the empty road. “What has happened?” asked Lucia in a strangled voice. “Another tyre gone, ma’am,” said the chauffeur. “Never knew such a thing.” Lucia looked at her clock. It was ten already, and she ought now to be in Brompton Square. There was no further wheel that could be put on, and the tyre had to be taken off and mended. The minutes passed like seconds.... Lucia, outwardly composed, sat on a rug at the edge of the road, and tried unsuccessfully not to curse Almighty Providence. The moon rose, like a gelatine lozenge. She began to count the hours that intervened between the tragic present and, say, four o’clock in the morning, and she determined that whatever further disasters might befall, she would go to Whitby House, even if it was in a dustman’s cart, so long as there was a chance of a single guest being left there. She would go.... And all the time, if she had only known it, the stars were fighting not against her but for her. The tyre was mended, and she got to Brompton Square at exactly a quarter past eleven. Cupboards were torn open, drawers ransacked, her goaded maid burst into tears. Aunt Amy’s pearls were clasped round her neck, Pepino’s hair in the shrine of gold sausage that had once been Beethoven’s was pinned on, and at five minutes past twelve she hurried up the great stairs at Whitby House. Precisely as she came to the door of the ballroom there emerged the head of the procession going down to supper. Marcia for a moment stared at her as if she was a ghost, but Lucia was so busy curtseying that she gave no thought to that. Seven times in rapid succession did she curtsey. It almost became a habit, and she nearly curtseyed to Adele who (so like Adele) followed immediately after. “Just up from Riseholme, dearest Adele,” she said. “I felt quite rested---- How are you, Lord Tony?---- and so I made a little effort. Pepino urged me to come. How nice to see your Excellency! Millie! Dearest Olga! What a lot of friends! How is poor Princess Isabel? Marcia looked so handsome. Brilliant! Such a delicious drive: I felt I had to pop in....” CHAPTER IX