Between eleven and twelve o’clock on the following morning the maid came into the parlour, and gave her mistress a card.
On it was “Mr. Thomas Gatliffe.”
“Show the gentleman in,” said Miss Stanbridge. “’Gad, he’s not lost much time,” she murmured, when the girl had left.
“As I happened to be passing this way,” said Gatliffe, as he entered, “I thought I would take the liberty of giving you a call to inquire how you are after last night’s fatigue.”
“You are very kind, I’m sure,” returned Laura, handing her visitor a chair; “and I need not add that I am pleased to see you, as it gives me assurance that I am not forgotten.”
Gatliffe’s manner was a little constrained—to say the truth, he was not altogether at ease.
In the first place he was surprised to find the lady the only occupant of the room when he entered.
He had expected to see some of her relatives present. He did not know the character or the ways of the alluring creature whom he had imprudently chosen to visit.
He was miserably dull and wretched in his lonely home at Wood-green, and it is therefore not surprising that he should be glad of almost any change to break the painful monotony of his existence.
“Now tell me,” observed Laura, in a playful sportive manner, “what do you think of your newly-formed acquaintance by the morning’s light?”