It was not yet the hour fixed for dinner when Frank Amberley arrived at the house.
“Mr. Gerald went out, sir, and has not come home yet, though he said he’d be back to dinner,” the domestic said. “But the young ladies are in the drawing-room.”
The servant threw open the door, announced Mr. Amberley, and then retired.
Throughout the house the lamps had been lighted, but were all still turned down to a mere spark; for the long summer days had only begun to show signs of shortening. In the drawing-room, a soft, amber glow, subdued and mellow, mingled its rays with the dreamy semitwilight.
At first, the profound, peaceful silence made Frank Amberley imagine the apartment was uninhabited; but, as the door closed, a soft swish of silken garments undeceived him.
For a moment his heart fluttered with pain and pleasure at the thought that he was possibly alone with Lois; but instantly after the unfamiliar figure of Blanche Dormer presented itself.
She had been reading one of the new magazines, nestling in a quiet corner by one of the windows.
It was a sufficiently embarrassing situation, as neither knew what to say. A formal salutation passed, and then Miss Dormer meditated for a moment or two how she could best manage to beat a retreat.
Presently, however, these two forgot their embarrassment, and found themselves chatting together as if they had been friends for a dozen years.
In about ten minutes Lois appeared, and Blanche did not then think it necessary to run away. Miss Turquand was, of course, quite unconscious that Frank Amberley had any special communication to make, and totally unaware that he took any particular interest in Captain Desfrayne.