“Yes.” She looked up to him inquiringly and distrustfully.
His face brightened again and softened—then hardened singularly, all at once. She could not have believed that such features could change so quickly.
“And my son says that your mother is here! My dear young lady—I’m very glad! I hope you mean to stay.”
The words were cordial. The tone was cold. Brook stared at his father, very much surprised to find that he knew anything of the Bowrings, for he himself had not mentioned them in his letters. But the porters, walking more slowly, had just brought his mother up to where the three stood, and waited, panting a little, and the chair swinging slightly from the shoulder-straps.
“Dear old boy!” cried Lady Johnstone. “It is good to see you. No—don’t kiss me, my dear—it’s far too hot. Let me look at you.”
Sir Adam gravely introduced Clare. Lady Johnstone’s fat face became stony as a red granite mummy case, and she bent her apoplectic neck stiffly.
“Oh!” she ejaculated. “Very glad, I’m sure. Were you going for a walk?” she asked, turning to Brook, severely.
“Yes, there was just time. I didn’t know when to expect you. But if Miss Bowring doesn’t mind, we’ll give it up, and I’ll install you. Your rooms are all ready.”
It was at once clear to Clare that Lady Johnstone had never heard the name of Bowring, and that she resented the idea of her son walking alone with any young girl.