She walked through the crowded streets homewards, her nerves tingling and her pulses throbbing with excitement. She was conscious of having somehow ridded herself of a load of uncertainty and anxiety. She was committed now at any rate to a definite course. There had been moments of indecision—moments in which she had been inclined to revert to her first impressions of the man, which, before she had heard Davenant's story, had been favourable enough. That was all over now. That pitifully tragic figure—the man who died with a tardy fortune in his hands, an outcast in a far off country—had stirred in her heart a passionate sympathy—reason even gave way before it. She declared war against Mr. Scarlett Trent.
CHAPTER XX
Ernestine walked from Lincoln's Inn to the office of the Hour, where she stayed until nearly four. Then, having finished her day's work, she made her way homewards. Davenant was waiting for her in her rooms. She greeted him with some surprise.
“You told me that I might come to tea,” he reminded her. “If you're expecting any one else, or I'm in the way at all, don't mind saying so, please!”
She shook her head.
“I'm certainly not expecting any one,” she said. “To tell you the truth my visiting-list is a very small one; scarcely any one knows where I live. Sit down, and I will ring for tea.”
He looked at her curiously. “What a colour you have, Ernestine!” he remarked. “Have you been walking fast?”
She laughed softly, and took off her hat, straightening the wavy brown hair, which had escaped bounds a little, in front of the mirror. She looked at herself long and thoughtfully at the delicately cut but strong features, the clear, grey eyes and finely arched eyebrows, the curving, humorous mouth and dainty chin. Davenant regarded her in amazement.
“Why, Ernestine,” he exclaimed, “are you taking stock of your good looks?”