Salome's colour, always high in tone, had risen considerably. She laid down her work and rose quickly, with a look in her eyes that betrayed nervous excitement. She was alone. Her mother had gone out with Juliet to do some shopping. It was too early in the day for ordinary calls, and Mr. Ainger was not in the habit of paying such. He had never come to the house before and asked especially for her. Of course it meant nothing, but—
Salome glanced at the mirror above the mantelshelf to see if her person were perfectly neat—a needless precaution. Not a hair was out of place on the flat, smooth, shiny surface of her head. Her utterly plain gown was neatness itself. But the eyes that met hers in the glass had an excited gleam. They looked as if they thought something was going to happen.
Mr. Ainger was standing in the centre of the drawing-room. He was a tall man, with large hands and feet, and a very big nose. He had the expression of one who loved investigation.
"Good-morning, Miss Grant," he said, in loud, full tones, shaking hands with her as though he were anxious to get through that inevitable but unimportant preliminary with as much despatch as possible. Salome's heart ceased to flutter, and her spirits sank.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Ainger?" she said, indicating a chair.
"Oh, thanks." He hesitated for a moment, then dropped into a chair which was not the one she had meant him to take, but one a great deal too low for a man of his stature, in which he sat huddled up with his big nose almost touching his knees. His attitude was so grotesque, that had Juliet been there she would have found it difficult to keep her countenance; but a sense of humour was not amongst the gifts Nature had bestowed upon Salome Grant, and she found no difficulty in maintaining the meek, humble, reverential demeanour which she felt became her in the presence of one whom she regarded as a spiritual guide.
"I want to know if you can clear up a matter which is puzzling me," he said. "I have just come from your district, and I am sorry to say I bring news that will distress you. That woman Malins, who took the pledge only last Thursday, is drinking again."
"Ah," said Salome, sorrowfully shaking her head, "I never thought that she would keep it."
"No? Well, indeed, there seems little hope, humanly speaking, for those who are so enthralled by the passion for drink. But the strangest thing about it is—I am sure I shall surprise you when I say it—that the people in the house where she lives seem to think that it is your fault."
"My fault!" repeated Salome, in amazement. "My fault that Mrs. Malins has taken to drink again! How can that be?"