Lady Grace was reclining, almost completely lying, on a couch near the fire. At a little distance sat a middle-aged lady, bent over some kind of needlework. It was a distant connection of the marquis, who acted as a kind of housekeeper, and who was more like a shadow than a living, breathing woman. Beyond his first greeting when he had arrived, Lord Cecil had not succeeded in exchanging a word with her. As he entered now she just raised her head like an automaton, and let it fall again over her work. Lady Grace looked across at him with a smile, and he went and leaned against the mantel-piece of carved marble and mosaic, and she let her eyes scan his face in silence for a moment, then she said, with a smile:
“Have you been enjoying yourself, Lord Cecil?”
“Oh, very much!” he said.
She laughed a low, soft laugh.
“Shall I tell you what you are thinking?” she said.
He looked at her inquiringly.
“You were wondering what train you could catch to-morrow morning.”
He started.
“Right the first time!” he acknowledged, with a short laugh.
She moved her fan—it was a large one of fancy blue feathers—which in juxtaposition with her face made its fairness seem dazzling.