'Yes, m'lady.'
Sutton opened a door and disappeared. A footstep sounded on the marble floor of the lobby.
Over her shoulder Lady John called out, 'Is that Miss Levering?'
'No, m'lady. Mr. Farnborough.'
'I'm afraid I'm scandalously early.' In spite of his words the young man whipped off his dust coat and flung it to the servant with as much precipitation as though what he had meant to say was 'scandalously late.' 'I motored up from Dutfield. It didn't take me nearly so long as Lord John said.'
The lady had given the young man her hand without rising. 'I'm afraid my husband is no authority on motoring—and he's not home yet from church.'
'It's the greatest luck finding you.' Farnborough sat himself down in the easy-chair on the other side of the wide writing-table undaunted by its business-like air or the preoccupied look of the woman before it. 'I thought Miss Levering was the only person under this roof who was ever allowed to observe Sunday as a real day of rest.'
'If you've come to see Miss Levering——' began Lady John.
'Is she here? I give you my word I didn't know it.'