It was one of the largest houses in the lane, and the appointments were of a magnificence suitable to the richest lady in London.
The hall she entered, though not so large as those in country mansions, was superbly decorated and lined with choice exotics. Statuary, white as the driven snow, gleamed against the mosaic walls. Plush had given place to Indian muslin for the summer months, and the white place looked like an Oriental or a Grecian dream.
"I am out to everyone but Mr. Ambrose," she said to the footman who attended her, and passing by the drawing-room, she ascended the stairs and entered a really beautiful apartment, which, as she reserved it for herself, might be called her boudoir.
She shut the door and dropped on a couch, flinging her hat on a table and feverishly tugging at her gauntlets. Then she rose and began pacing the room. And all the time she looked as anxious as a woman could look.
Presently the door opened, and a servant announced Mr. Ambrose.
"Bring some tea," she said, "and show Mr. Ambrose in."
He came in, cool, self-possessed, bringing with him, as it seemed, a breath of cold air.
Just glancing at her, he put down his hat and whip, and seating himself in one of the delightfully easy chairs, leant back and looked at her from under his lids.
It was a peculiar look, critical, analytical; it was the look a surgeon bends on a patient who is a curious and, perhaps, difficult case.
"Well?" she said, sinking into a chair and fidgeting with the handle of her whip.