“Miss Haredale,” said Sylvester, standing up before her, “I dare say your sister has told you of her kindness the other night. I do not dare even to apologise for the mistake which I made. My eyes were deceived, but my mind—never! It was of course my first duty to undeceive my friend, whom I so cruelly injured. By a strange chance, Lucian came back from America two days ago. He is in London, and he begs to be allowed to ask your pardon in person. It was not his fault.”
There was a dead silence. Amethyst’s deep blush slowly faded. Either she could not speak or did not know what to say. Then, after what seemed minutes, she spoke.
“That is all a very old story, Mr Riddell. As you may have seen, we do not wish to look back on it in a tragical manner. If Mr Leigh wishes to call here, I am sure my mother will be quite willing to receive him. Why not? As you say, he made a mistake. It was a natural one.”
She spoke with a kind of hauteur, mingling with the smiling coolness of Lady Haredale’s manner. Sylvester’s heart sank within him. Then she did not care what either of them thought of her.
“You would be at home—when?” he stammered.
“Let me see. This afternoon we go to a matinée. We expect a few friends to-night, we shall be at home after dinner. Will you come then—and Mr Leigh, if he wishes.”
Sylvester murmured thanks and acceptance, and having gained his point went away miserable.
When he got back, he did his best to make Lucian as unhappy as himself; so that it was perhaps as well that the latter went off by the next train to Cleverley to fetch the dress-clothes, which he had left behind him there.