"My mother is at home?"
"No, sir; out. In the kerridge. She drove Homersham way."
"See after my things. Here are my keys." And Harold passed on to the little morning-room which Mrs. Purling called her own. Having the choice of half-a-dozen chambers, each as big as Exeter Hall, she preferred to occupy habitually the smallest den in the house. To his surprise he found the room not untenanted. A young lady was at the book-case, and she turned seemingly in trepidation on hearing the door open.
"Miss Fanshawe," thought Harold, as he advanced with eyes that were unmistakably critical.
"I must introduce myself," he said. "I am Harold."
"The last of the Saxon kings?"
"No; the first of the Purling princes. I know you quite well. Has my mother never mentioned me?"
"I only arrived yesterday," the young lady replied, rather evading the question.
"My mother must be delighted. She told me she was looking forward eagerly to your promised visit."
"She really spoke of me?"