The Marquis was unruffled but bitter.
"Your sense of humour, my dear Robert," he said, "suffers, I fear, from your daily associations in the House of Commons."
The man by Letitia's side suddenly leaned forward. After the smooth and pleasant voice of the Marquis, his question, with its slight transatlantic accent, sounded almost harsh.
"What did you say that man's name was, Marquis?"
"Richard Vont," was the courteous reply. "The name is a singular one, but America is a vast country. I imagine it is scarcely possible that in the course of your travels you have come across a person so named?"
"A man calling himself Richard Vont crossed in the steamer with me, three weeks ago," David Thain announced. "I have not the least doubt that this is the man who is coming to occupy the cottage you speak of."
"It is indeed a small world," the Marquis remarked. "I will not inflict this family matter upon you all any longer. After lunch, perhaps, you will spare me a few moments of your time, Mr.—Mr. Thain. I shall be interested to hear more about this person."
Letitia rose, presently, to leave the room. Whilst she waited for her aunt to conclude a little anecdote, she glanced with some interest at the man by her side. More than ever the sense of his incongruity with that atmosphere seemed borne in upon her, yet she was forced to concede to him, notwithstanding the delicacy of his appearance, a certain unexpected strength, a forcefulness of tone and manner, which gave him a certain distinction. He had risen, waiting for her passing, and one lean brown hand gripped the back of the chair in which she had been sitting. She carried away with her into the Victorian drawing-room, with its odour of faded lavender, a queer sense of having been brought into momentary association with stronger and more vital things in life.