“Tell him I wish to see him, please.”
She was admitted, the question being asked—“What name, please?”
A moment’s hesitation, and then “Miss Joan Brooke” came firmly.
The maid gave a surprised glance, showed Joan into a small sitting-room—a study or boudoir—and vanished.
Joan stood on the rug, trying to conquer the trembling which assailed every limb. No long time elapsed before the door opened, and a courtly, white-haired old gentleman entered.
A stranger could not have failed to be struck at that moment with the likeness between the two faces—both pale in tint, both mastering strong agitation, both with marked, full eyebrows drawn together over black eyes full of defiance.
“Good-morning, Miss Joan Brooke,” the old gentleman said distantly. He had the milk-cans of old Cairns, Joan’s other grandfather, very plainly before his mind’s eye. “I hope you are well. Very good of you to come and see me. I expressed a wish to Mr. Rutherford for one short interview. Will you be so good as to take a seat?”
“No; I would rather stand,” Joan answered, keenly aware of the condescension in his tone. “That was not my reason for coming. Father did not tell me you had said anything of the sort. He has been too ill. I have only come to ask a question.”
“Any question that Miss Joan Brooke desires to ask—” and he waved his hand. “But perhaps Miss Joan Brooke will consent to take a seat. I am old; and a gentleman cannot well sit while a—a—lady stands.” He very nearly said “a woman,”—remembering still the milk-cans.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Joan; and she went to the nearest chair.