CHAPTER XVIII
Jacob, on his return from the telephone, found to his surprise a familiar figure seated before the piano in the long drawing-room, an apartment more picturesque than ever now in the shaded lamplight, with its faded yellow satin furniture, its amber hangings, and its quaint perfume of bygone days. Lady Mary came to meet him.
“You see what I have done for you,” she whispered.
“Miss Bultiwell!”
Lady Mary nodded.
“You’ll have to be careful, though,” she warned him. “I can see that there has been some trouble—that the course of true love hasn’t been running exactly as it should.”
“I told you that,” Jacob reminded her dismally. “I am beginning to believe that she hates me.”
“Not she,” was the cheerful reply. “Look here, mother’s gone into the housekeeper’s room for a moment. Dad and Mr. Montague are adding up how much they have made out of you. You slip out on to the terrace there, before she turns around, and I’ll bring her out directly.”
Jacob did as he was directed, and, with the echoes of Sybil’s song still in his ears, stepped out on to a wide balcony and stood looking over the tops of the lime trees towards Buckingham Palace. Presently there was a rustle of skirts, the sound of voices, and the two girls appeared. Sybil stopped short when she saw Jacob, but Lady Mary stood in the way of her retreat.