He left the room. Macheson drew up a chair for Letty, but she refused it, trembling.
“Oh! I daren’t sit down, Mr. Macheson,” she declared. “And please—don’t say that I was with Mr. Hurd. I know he wouldn’t like it.”
“Probably not,” Macheson answered, “but what am I to say?”
“Anything—anything but that,” she begged.
Macheson nodded his promise. Then the door opened, and his heart seemed to stand still. She entered the room in all the glory of a wonderful toilette; she wore her famous ropes of pearls, the spotless white of her gown was the last word from the subtlest Parisian workshop of the day. But it was not these things that counted. Had he been dreaming, he wondered a moment later, or had that strange smile indeed curved her lips, that marvellous light indeed flowed from her eyes? It was the lady of his dreams who had entered—it was a very different woman who, with a slight frown upon her smooth forehead, was looking at the girl who stood trembling by Macheson’s side.
“It is Mr. Macheson, is it not?” she said calmly, “the young man who wanted to convert my villagers. And you—who are you?” she asked, turning to the girl.
“Letty Foulton, if you please, ma’am,” the girl answered.
“Foulton! Letty Foulton!” Wilhelmina repeated.
“Yes, ma’am! My brother has Onetree farm,” the girl continued.
Wilhelmina inclined her head.