His man came into his room at that moment, bringing a note.
It was written in pencil, and came from Camilla.
"I am waiting outside," she had scribbled. "I wonder if you would see me? I want to see you very much. I have a great favour to ask you. Could you spare me ten minutes?"
Rupert Haverford read the note two or three times; he wanted to calm himself and steady his voice.
"Please ask Mrs. Lancing if she will come in, Harper," he said.
She came in almost directly.
Yesterday she had been a brown fairy; to-day she seemed to be a living violet. He never knew in detail what she wore; he was only conscious of the exquisite effect she always made. Her near approach was heralded by the sweetest, faintest whisper of the flowers she personified.
She had thrown back her veil. He noticed that though she was smiling she looked pale and tired.
"How good of you to see me!" she said.
"How good of you to come!" he answered in his usual grave way—the way she called "stodgy."