She had finally compromised with an undertaking from Felix Menebees to open the door himself, and usher Lord Charlesbury as far as the staircase, where Rose was to come and meet him.
She heard his deep, pleasant voice speaking to Felix, and a tremulous monosyllable from Felix in return, and then she ran down to meet him.
“I’m very glad to see you again,” said Lord Charlesbury, although Rose was only too well aware that he could hardly see her at all, in the absence of all but absolutely necessary illumination insisted upon by Uncle Alfred. “How are you?”
“I’m quite well, thank you,” Rose replied, in the literal formula taught her long ago by her mother. “Won’t you come up?”
Uncle Alfred was not in the sitting-room, to the relief of his niece, and she and her visitor sat down each in a plush-covered armchair upon either side of the small gas-fire. A beaded footstool, with curly legs, and a fire-screen, its dingy white-wood panel bearing a sprawled painting of yellow and pink roses, stood between them.
Rose looked at Charlesbury.
She had not seen him very often, but she had thought about him a great deal, and felt that strange fear, which is common to all those who have outgrown very early youth, lest the reality of a remembered presence should prove disappointing. He smiled at her, his grave, attractive smile.
“How’s your boy, and how are they all at Squires?”
“Ces is very well, and he likes Hurst all right. I saw your Hugh, when I was down there last.”
“Did you? I’m hoping to go and see him myself, to-morrow. They tell me he’s a born cricketer. Is Cecil keen on that?”