“Well, I am——!” exclaimed George, and paused.
The note was addressed in the handwriting he now knew very well, the handwriting of the Bournemouth character.
“Dear Mr. Neston,
“I shall be alone at five o’clock to-day. Will you come and see me?
“Yours sincerely,
“Neaera Witt.”
“You must do as a lady asks you,” said George, “even if she does steal shoes, and you have mentioned it. Here goes! What’s she up to now, I wonder?”
Neaera, arrayed in the elaborate carelessness of a tea-gown, received him, not in the drawing-room, but in her own snuggery. Tea was on the table; there was a bright little fire, and a somnolent old cat snoozed on the hearth-rug. The whole air was redolent of what advertisements called a “refined home,” and Neaera’s manner indicated an almost pathetic desire to be friendly, checked only by the self-respecting fear of a rude rebuff to her advances.
“It is really kind of you to come,” she said, “to consent to a parley.”
“The beaten side always consents to a parley,” answered George, taking the seat she indicated. She was half sitting, half lying on a sofa when he came in, and resumed her position after greeting him.
“No, no,” she said quickly; “that’s where it’s hard—when you’re beaten. But do you consider yourself beaten?”