"Fred is our last hope as a chaperon," she remarked carelessly, as she took his arm. "I expect he'll turn up later."
Dinner—which, as John observed when they entered the room, was laid only for two—was served at a small, round table drawn pleasantly up to the fire. John, who had never admired his hostess more, put all disquieting thoughts behind him and thoroughly enjoyed the dainty meal. The pleasant warmth of the room, the excellent champagne, and Lady Hilda's amusing conversation, unlocked his tongue. He talked much more freely than usual of his life in Cumberland, of the various half-formed plans which he had made as to the spending of his unexpected fortune, of the new pleasure he found in motoring, of his almost pathetic efforts to understand and appreciate the town life which at heart he hated. A clever listener, like most good talkers, Lady Hilda frequently encouraged him with a sympathetic word or two.
They were sitting over their coffee and liqueurs in two great easy chairs drawn up to the fire, when John glanced at the clock with a little start.
"Why, it's nearly ten o'clock!" he exclaimed. "What on earth can have become of your brother?"
Almost as he spoke the telephone-bell rang. It stood on a little table behind him. Lady Hilda, who was leaning back in her chair in an attitude of luxurious repose, pointed lazily to it.
"Answer it for me, there's a dear man," she begged.
John took up the receiver. He recognized the voice at once—it was Lady Hilda's brother who spoke.
"I say, is Lady Hilda there?" he asked.
"Yes, where are you?" John replied. "I am John Strangewey. We have been expecting you all the evening."
"Expecting me?" was the reply. "What on earth are you talking about? And what are you doing in the wilderness?"