“A gentleman had called to see her,” murmured Miss West languidly, as she drew off her gloves on the threshold of the morning-room. “Did he leave his card?”
“No, ma’am, he did not; he said he had forgotten it.”
“And he asked for me—not for Mr. West?” she continued indifferently, glancing at her parent, who was rapidly turning over a pile of notes, and picking out those emblazoned with a coronet.
“I’ll tell you who it was,” he broke in; “it was Lord Maltravers. He came about that macaw he promised you.”
“No, sir,” put in Jeames, firmly but respectfully; “it was no gentleman I ever saw before—certainly not Lord Maltravers—though he might have been a lord for all I know to the contrary.”
“It wasn’t a tradesman?”
“Oh no, sir!” most emphatically.
“What was he like?” inquired Madeline, opening a letter very deliberately as she spoke, her thoughts very far away from Laurence.
“Well, ma’am, he looked quite the gentleman. He was tall, about my ’ight” (complacently), “very dark eyes, a short beard—what you’d consider a ’andsome young man. He carried a queer-looking stick with a ivory top, and he seemed disappointed as you were not at home!”