Vizard was always at home at Vizard Court, except to convicted Bores. Mr. Ashmead was shown into his study.
Vizard knew him at a glance. The velveteen coat had yielded to tweed; but another loud tie had succeeded to the one “that fired the air at Homburg.” There, too, was the wash-leather face, and other traits Vizard professed to know an actress's lover by. Yes, it was the very man at sight of whom he had fought down his admiration of La Klosking, and declined an introduction to her. Vizard knew the lady better now. But still he was a little jealous even of her acquaintances, and thought this one unworthy of her; so he received him with stiff but guarded politeness, leaving him to open his business.
Ashmead, overawed by the avenue, the dozen gables, four-score chimneys, etc., addressed him rather obsequiously, but with a certain honest trouble, that soon softened the bad impression caused by his appearance.
“Sir,” said he, “pray excuse this intrusion of a stranger, but I am in great anxiety. It is not for myself, but for a lady, a very distinguished lady, whose interests I am charged with. It is Mademoiselle Klosking, the famous singer.”
Vizard maintained a grim silence.
“You may have heard of her.”
“I have.”
“I almost fancy you once heard her sing—at Homburg.”
“I did.”
“Then I am sure you must have admired her, being a gentleman of taste. Well, sir, it is near a fortnight since I heard from her.”