The footman told him that Lady Grace was out, riding in the park.
“I’ll wait,” said Lord Cecil, and he went into the drawing-room.
He paced up and down the Turkey carpet, looking out of the window, and staring at the ornaments on the mantel-shelf. Among them was one of the fashionable cabinet photograph frames, with the portrait covered by a curtain. In absence of mind he drew the curtain aside and saw a portrait of himself.
With a sudden flush he let it fall, as the door opened, and Lady Grace entered.
She was in her riding-habit—in the garb which set off her perfectly graceful figure to its very best advantage.
As she entered, her mature and majestic loveliness struck him fully for the first time, and he remembered with a sudden vividness the words of one of the young fellows at the Norwegian inn. Yes, she was one of the loveliest of society women!
She started perceptibly at sight of him, so much so that she dropped her whip. He sprang forward and picked it up for her, and by the time he had given it her—few moments though the action required—she had recovered herself.
“Back so soon!” she said, giving him her hand, small, and white, and warm. “This is a surprise! Don’t the salmon bite, or rise, or whatever you call it? Or has it rained all the time, and have you been bored to death? I’m afraid you’ll be bored just as much in London, for every one is leaving.”
“The salmon were all right,” he said, still holding her hand. “I came back because I wanted to see you!”
“To see me?” she said, her eyes flashing into his for a moment, and then drooping. “Well, you were just in time, for papa and I were off to the Continent.”