Monica’s cheek had flushed suddenly; but before she could frame a rejoinder the door opened to admit Randolph. He carried in his hand some hot-house flowers, which he had brought for his wife. He stopped short when he saw who was Monica’s guest, and her cheek flamed anew, for she knew he would not understand how she came to receive him in her private room, and she felt that by a want of firmness and savoir faire she had allowed herself to be placed in a false position.
Conrad’s exit was effected with more despatch than dignity, yet he contrived in his farewell words to insinuate that he had passed a very happy morning with his hostess, instead of a brief ten minutes.
Randolph did not speak a word, but stood leaning against the chimney-piece with a stern look on his handsome face. Monica was angry with herself and with Conrad, yet she felt half indignant at the way her husband ignored her guest.
“Monica,” said Randolph, speaking first, “I am sorry to have to say it; but I cannot receive Sir Conrad Fitzgerald as a guest beneath my roof.”
“You had better give your orders, then, accordingly.”
He stepped forward and took her hand.
“Surely, Monica, you cannot have any real liking for this man?”
“I do not know what you call real liking. We have been friends from childhood; and I do not easily change. He was always welcomed to my father’s house.”
“Your father did not know his history.”
“Perhaps not; but I do. At least I know this much: that he has sinned and has repented. Is not repentance enough?”