Melville's absence from The Vale occurring thus simultaneously with Sir Ross Buchanan's defection made the time hang heavy on Mrs. Sinclair's hands, and, her other visitors being few, she suddenly found herself deprived of all companionship. It was not long before this solitude became intolerable to her, and as her repeated little notes to Melville remained without an answer she determined to go to call on him in person. He, of course, had duly received these several communications, but as none of them contained the news which he desired—that Sir Ross had resumed his visits—he did not think that any good purpose would be served by prosecuting his attentions to his aunt.
As a consequence of his disaster at the races he was obliged to economise again. For breakfast, followed by luncheon at his club or some good restaurant, he substituted a meal which would in France be termed déjeûner, but which he significantly labelled "brunch," as being neither the one thing nor the other, although compact of both. Then in the afternoon he lounged by the Achilles Statue, and played billiards if chance threw in his way any acquaintance with kindred tastes but less skill than his own. And in the evening he would dine alone at some one of the many cheap restaurants in Soho, or have a chop in solitude at home. The life was all right in a way, but aimless and not to his taste. Yet even he could not bring himself to make fresh demands upon his uncle until a more reasonable period had elapsed.
It was after one of these purposeless saunters in the Park that he went back to his rooms. The day had been very hot, and, after letting down the sun-blinds, Melville threw himself upon the sofa and idly blew rings of smoke into the still air. A pile of illustrated papers lay within reach, syphons and decanters stood upon a table at his elbow, and he was just falling into a doze when he heard a woman's voice, and in another moment his valet opened the outer door with his master-key and ushered Mrs. Sinclair in.
Melville jumped to his feet and greeted her effusively, checking her mixture of apologies and reproaches with admirable tact.
"It was a case of Mahomet and the mountain," she said. "You didn't come and didn't answer my letters—I never thought you could be so abominably rude, Melville—and I wanted to see you, so there was no help for it but to disregard proprieties and come here. Why don't you marry some charming girl, so that I can call without being compromised or compromising you? You would be a delightful husband."
"So I have been explaining," Melville answered, "but the charming girl has the bad taste to prefer somebody else. Get some tea, Jervis, and some strawberries and things."
Mrs. Sinclair settled herself in a comfortable chair, with her back to the light, and took stock of her surroundings.
"I wonder how it is that bachelors always have such delightful quarters? This room is an effective answer to the old sneer that no place can be quite comfortable without a woman's touch."
"Perhaps I'm a bit effeminate in my tastes," Melville replied. "Lots of musical Johnnies are, you know. How is Sir Ross Buchanan?"
He switched off the conversation from trifles to essentials with perfect ease, and Mrs. Sinclair showed no resentment.