“If you come back,” she whispered threateningly, “it will cost me my situation and I will never speak to you again.”
“I won’t come,” he promised sadly.
“She’s a charming girl,” Lady Mary said. “Why won’t she have you?”
“It’s a long story,” Jacob sighed.
“We’ll see what we can do on Thursday night,” she reflected. “Good-by! I shall tell mother we are getting along famously. Don’t forget Thursday at eight o’clock.”
The drawing-room at Delchester House was large and in its way magnificent, although there was in the atmosphere that faint, musty odour, as though holland covers had just been removed from the furniture, and the place only recently prepared for habitation. The Marchioness, who was alone, greeted Jacob with much cordiality.
“I hope you won’t mind our not having a party for you, Mr. Pratt,” she said. “We are just ourselves, and a quaint person whom Delchester has picked up in the city, some one who is going to help him make some money, I hope. You have no idea, Mr. Pratt, how hard things are to-day for people with inherited estates.”
Jacob murmured a word of sympathy. Then the Marquis appeared, followed by Lady Mary, who drew him to one side to ask him questions about Sybil; next came Felixstowe, who looked in to say “How do you do” on his way to dine with a friend; and finally, to Jacob’s amazement, the butler announced, “Mr. Dane Montague!”
Mr. Dane Montague, in a new dress suit, his hair treated by a West End hairdresser, had a generally toned-down appearance. Jacob was conscious of a sensation of genuine admiration when, upon the introduction being effected, the newcomer held out his hand without the slightest embarrassment.