Lady Carleton had a very simple manner, but Florence looked up at her with the first sense of real respect—she had begun to have real likings—that she had ever known.
“I will try,” she said softly, with her bold eyes cast down; and Lady Carleton took her by the hand and led her up to the nursery.
An hour or two later, when Florence, whose reception by the nurse had not been particularly cordial, was sitting demurely in the nursery window, putting her best needlework, such as it was, into Miss Lily’s new pinafore, a note was brought to Lady Carleton. “The gentleman was waiting.” Lady Carleton had thought of nothing but the half-heard story of the returned travellers, of the hint about the jewels, and of the hope that the consequences of her girlish folly might be undone at last.
The note ran thus:—
“Ashcroft: August 5th.
“Dear Lady, Carleton,—My eldest son has returned from abroad. He asks your permission for a short interview, either with yourself or with Sir Philip Carleton, concerning the circumstances under which he left England.
“I remain sincerely yours,—
“George Cunningham.”
Lady Carleton handed the note to her husband, to whom she had already related Florence’s story.
“You will see him?” said Sir Philip. “Ask the gentleman to walk in.”