The Marquis, if he had been a keen physiognomist, might perhaps have read all that he had come to London to know in Marcia's expression as he made his unexpected entrance into her sitting room on the following day. She was seated at her desk, with a great pile of red roses on one side of her, and a secretary, to whom she was dictating, on the other. She swung round in her chair and for a moment was speechless. She looked at her visitor incredulously, a little helplessly, with some traces of an emotion which puzzled him. Her greeting, however, was hearty enough. She sprang to her feet and held out both her hands.
"My dear man, how unlike you! Really, I think that I like surprises. Give me both your hands—so! Let me look at you."
"I should have warned you of my coming," he said, raising the ink-stained fingers which he was clasping to his lips, "but to tell you the truth it was a caprice."
"I thought you were in the country, at Mandeleys!" she exclaimed.
"I was," he replied. "I have motored up from there this morning. I came to see you."
She dismissed her secretary, gazed at herself in the glass and made a grimace.
"And a nice sight I look! Never mind. Fancy motoring up from Mandeleys! What time did you start?"
"At six o'clock," he answered, with a little smile. "It was somewhat before my regular hour for rising. If you have no other arrangements, I should be glad if you would take luncheon with me."
"Bless the man, of course I will!" she assented, passing her arm through his and leading him to a chair. "You are not looking quite so well as you ought to after a breath of country air."
"I am passing through a time of some anxiety," he acknowledged.