Mrs. Reade came softly into the hall, carelessly adjusting her long train behind her.
"Who is it, dear?" she asked. But she had already guessed who it was.
Rachel held out the little slip of pasteboard with an unsteady, shrinking hand. She could not speak. There was a great light and flush of excitement in her face, which yet was as full of fear as joy.
"Roden Dalrymple," murmured Beatrice, reading hesitatingly, as if the name were unfamiliar to her. "Is not that one of Lucilla's friends?"
"Yes," said Rachel, drawing a long breath and speaking softly. "He was at Adelonga when we were there. He went away to Queensland, but—he has come back."
"Evidently he has. What a pity we missed him. He may have brought us some news from Adelonga. Oh, dear me, don't you want your tea very badly? I do. John go and get us some tea, will you?"
Mrs. Reade did not intend to commit herself to any course of action until she had time to think over this new and most embarrassing complication, so she dismissed Mr. Dalrymple from the conversation.
Rachel turned the card about in her hands, reading its inscription over and over again. She was going to carry it away; but she reluctantly went back and laid it where she had found it. Then she followed Beatrice into the drawing-room like one in a dream.
The little woman watched her closely from the corner of her bright eyes, and she was terribly alarmed. She had had no idea until now what a formidable person this Roden Dalrymple was. The girl was in a quiver of excitement from head to foot. She wandered restlessly about the room, vaguely fiddling at the furniture and ornaments; she could not control her agitation.
John brought in the teapot, and Mrs. Reade peeled her gloves from her small white hands, and rolling them into a soft ball, tossed them down amongst the cups and saucers. She began to pour out the tea in silence, wondering what in the world she had better do.