“What on earth can the girl want next? She’s got her money—far more than any court would have awarded her. What the deuce is she bothering us further for?”
“I can’t imagine. Still, I’ll see her, if you like.”
“I wish you would, Wagram. The fact is, I’m sick of the very sound of the name.”
It was the middle of the afternoon, and the two were strolling together in the shrubbery. Both were, not unnaturally, somewhat annoyed.
“The young lady’s in the morning room, sir,” said the footman. “I put her in there, sir, because she said she’d come on a matter of business, and hoped no one else would come in.”
“Quite right,” said Wagram.
Delia rose as he entered. She did not put forth her hand, and did not seem to expect him to. She was busying herself extracting something from an envelope, and he noticed that her hands shook.
“I would have been over about this the first thing this morning,” she began, speaking quickly, “but my tyres were punctured. I did not want to lose a moment. But”—looking up—“it was not you I came to see, it was your father.”
“Won’t I do as well, Miss Calmour? Any matter of business is all within my province.”
“Well, then, it is about this,” exhibiting the letter of demand and the cheque. Wagram felt himself growing grim.