He thought he had taken his precautions, and was congratulating himself upon his forethought, when the porter threw open the door of the very carriage in which he had ensconced himself, saying, civilly:
“Now, ma’am, if you please.”
“But this is a smoking-carriage, porter,” interrupted Colonel Dacre.
“All right, sir; that’s what the lady wants,” he answered, somewhat disenchanted, but still deferential, as he handed her in, and put her bag and dressing-case in the seat beside her.
“I hope I don’t inconvenience you,” the lady began, then stopped short, and held out her hand. “Why, Lawrence, it is actually you! What an unmitigated piece of good luck!”
And she threw up her veil, and showed the handsome but bold features of Mrs. O’Hara.
Colonel Dacre had always felt kindly toward Mrs. O’Hara, in spite of her many faults and indiscretions, and, indeed, during her married life she had been exceedingly popular in the regiment, on account of her unaffected good nature. Colonel Dacre remembered what she had been, and forgot what she was, so that he always found a cordial greeting for her when they came together. Their hands met in a warm grasp.
“You can’t think how glad I am to have some one to talk to,” she said, her eyes suddenly clouding with tears. “You have heard of my poor brother’s sad death?”
“To tell you the truth, Norah, I never knew you had a brother.”
“No; well, it was no use telling everybody,” she answered, with some embarrassment. “He did not go on quite as one could have wished, and of course it would have annoyed Jack to have George talked about as his brother-in-law.”