Dominey rose to his feet—a tall, commanding figure—and stood waiting the approach of the newcomer. The Duke advanced, looking at him enquiringly. A young man, very obviously a soldier in mufti, was hovering in the background.
“I must plead guilty to the surprise,” the Duke confessed courteously. “There is something exceedingly familiar about your face, sir, but I cannot remember having had the privilege of meeting you.”
“You see,” Caroline observed, “I am not the only one, Everard, who did not accept you upon a glance. This is Everard Dominey, Henry, returned from foreign exile and regenerated in every sense of the word.”
“How do you do?” Dominey said, holding out his hand. “I seem to be rather a surprise to every one, but I hope you haven't quite forgotten me.”
“God bless my soul!” the Duke exclaimed. “You don't mean to say that you're really Everard Dominey?”
“I am he, beyond a doubt,” was the calm assurance.
“Most amazing!” the Duke declared, as he shook hands. “Most amazing! I never saw such a change in my life. Yes, yes, I see—same complexion, of course—nose and eyes—yes, yes! But you seem taller, and you carry yourself like a soldier. Dear, dear me! Africa has done wonderfully by you. Delighted, my dear Everard! Delighted!”
“You'll be more delighted still when you hear the rest of the news,” his wife remarked drily. “In the meantime, do present your friend.”
“Precisely so,” the Duke acquiesced, turning to the young man in the background. “Most sorry, my dear Captain Bartram. The unexpected return of a connection of my wife must be my apology for this lapse of manners. Let me present you to the Duchess. Captain Bartram is just back from Germany, my dear, and is an enthusiastic supporter of our cause.—Sir Everard Dominey.”
Caroline shook hands kindly with her husband's protege, and Dominey exchanged a solemn handshake with him.