CHAPTER XXXI
Gossett in the country was a very different person from Gossett in Grosvenor Square. An intimate at Mandeleys was not at all the same thing as a caller in town, and David found himself welcomed that evening with a grave but confidential smile.
"The drawing-room here is closed for the present, sir," he observed, after he had superintended the bestowal of David's coat and hat upon an underling. "We are using the gallery on the left wing. If you will be so kind as to come this way."
David was escorted into a long and very lofty apartment, cut off from the hall by some wonderful curtains, obviously of another generation. The walls were hung with pictures and old-fashioned weapons. At the far end was a small stage, and at the opposite extremity a little box which had apparently at some time been used by musicians. Some large beech logs were burning in an open fireplace. The room contained nothing in the way of furniture except a dozen or so old-fashioned chairs and a great settee.
"These large rooms," Gossett explained, "get a little damp, sir, so his lordship desired a fire here."
He had scarcely disappeared when a door which led into the gallery was opened, and Lady Letitia came slowly down the stairs. The place was lit only by hanging lamps, and David's impression of her, as he turned around, were a little unsubstantial. All the way down the stairs and across that strip of floor, it seemed to him that he could see nothing but her face. She carried herself as usual, there was all the pride of generations of Mandeleys in her slow, unhurried movements and the carriage of her head. But her face.—David gripped at the back of one of the tall chairs. He made at first no movement towards her. This was the face of a woman into which he looked. The change there was so complete that the high walls seemed to melt away. It was just such a vision as he might have conceived to himself. Her words checked the fancies which were pouring into his brain. He became again the puzzled but everyday dinner guest.
"I am very glad that you have come, Mr. Thain," she said, giving him her hand, "and I am very glad indeed to see you alone, even if it is only for a moment, because I feel—perhaps it is my thoughts that feel—that they owe you an amende."
"You are very kind," he replied, a little bewildered. "I am glad to be here. What have you ever done which needs apology?"
"I spoke of my thoughts," she reminded him, with a little smile. "What I once thought, or rather feared, I am now ashamed of, and now that I have told you so I am more at ease."