Milly started from the chair by the window, where she had been sitting. "Oh, show him up, at once, please."
With one hand on the table, and her delicate face flushed, she presented a picture of loveliness such as the man who entered did not often see. He even paused for a moment on the threshold as if too much amazed to enter, and his manner was somewhat uneasy as he bowed to her, with his eyes fixed in a rather furtive manner on her face.
He was a man of thirty-five, although his smooth-shaven face and fair hair made him look younger than his years. It was a commonplace countenance, shrewd and intelligent enough, but not very attractive. There was a certain honesty in his eyes, however, which redeemed the plainness of his insignificant and irregular features.
"Mrs. Beadon, I think?" he said. "My name's Johnson. I come from Mr.—Mr. Beadon with a message."
"Yes?" said Milly, her hand upon her side. "What is it, please? Tell me quickly—is he coming to-day?"
The man looked at her oddly. There was something like pity in his eyes.
"Not to-day, madam," he replied.
Milly sank down on her chair again and sighed deeply. The color left her cheeks.
"I have a communication to make, madam," said the clerk, rather hesitatingly, "which I am afraid may be a little painful, though not, Mr. Beadon tells me, unexpected by you. I hope that you will be prepared——"
"Go on," said Milly, sharply. "What is it? Why have you come?"