Lady Mary turned towards her husband with a faint, curious smile as the carriage drew up.
“You had better talk to Pauline,” she said. “He is more in her line than mine.”
Rochester walked across the Park a little gloomily. His wife’s last words were ringing in his ears. For the first time since he could remember, a little cloud had loomed over his few short hours with Pauline. She had resented some contemptuous speech of his, and as though to mark her sense of his lack of generosity, she had encouraged Saton to talk, encouraged him to talk until the other conversation had died away, and the whole room had listened to this exponent of what he declared to be a new science. The fellow was a poseur and an impostor, Rochester told himself vigorously. He knew, he was absolutely convinced that he was not honest.
He sat down on a seat for a few minutes, and his thoughts somehow wandered back to that night when he had strolled over the hills and found a lonely boy gazing downward through the tree tops to the fading landscape. He remembered his own whimsical generosity, the feelings with which he had made his offer. He remembered, too, the conditions which he had made. With a sudden swift anger, he realized that those conditions had not been kept. Saton had told him little or nothing of his doings out in the world, of his struggles and his failures, of the growth of this new enthusiasm, if indeed it was an enthusiasm. He had hinted at strange adventures, but he had spoken of nothing definite. He had not kept his word.
Rochester rose to his feet with a little exclamation.
“He shall tell me!” he muttered to himself, “or I will expose him, if I have to turn detective and follow him round the world.”
He swung round again across the Park toward Mayfair, and rang the bell at Saton’s new house. Mr. Saton was not at home, he was informed, but was expected back at any moment. Rochester accepted an invitation to wait, and was shown into a room which at first he thought empty. Then someone rose from an old-fashioned easy-chair, set back amongst the shadows. Rachael peered forward, leaning upon her stick, and shading her eyes as though from the sun.
“Who is that?” she asked. “Who are you?”
Rochester bowed, and introduced himself. As yet he could see very little of the person who had spoken. The blinds, and even the curtains of the room, were close drawn. It was one of Rachael’s strange fancies on certain days to sit in the darkness. Suddenly, however, she leaned forward and touched the knob of the electric light.
“My name is Rochester,” he said. “I called to see Mr. Saton for a few minutes. They asked me to wait.”