“But——”
An imperious little gesture. He was by her side, and the door was softly closed.
“To Amberley House, your ladyship?” the man asked, glancing discreetly at Strone’s gray clothes and soft hat.
“Home.”
The carriage stopped before the corner house of a handsome square. They passed up the steps together.
“This is your first visit to me,” she remarked, “and you have had to be dragged here. We will go upstairs.”
They passed through a dimly lighted drawing-room, the air of which seemed to Strone faint and sweet with the perfume of many flowers, out onto a shaded balcony, over which was a long, striped awning. In the corner were two low basket chairs. She sank into one and motioned him to take the other.
“This,” she murmured, “is luxury. Smoke, if you will—and talk to me. Tell me how you are getting on in the House.”
“None too well,” he answered gloomily. “I am all the while upon the brink of a volcano—and somehow I do not fancy that it will be long before the eruption comes.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, turning her pale face toward him. “I do not understand. I cannot believe that there is any one in the House whose position is more secure than yours.”