She certainly succeeded in this instance, and her words--'Oh! Mr. Raymond, I am so glad. I want to speak to you so much'--brought the latter back into the past with a vengeance, as, inwardly cursing himself for having taken the trouble to come and warn Sir George of something he thought serious, he mechanically followed the orderly's lead.
She scarcely looked a day older; she certainly was more beautiful. And surely, the last time he had seen her in those rooms alone, there had been just such a scarlet hand of poinsettia against the cold marble above her head.
'You have been seeing my husband,' she began quite unconsciously, and he broke in on the remark with a curious little laugh.
'I have, Lady Arbuthnot; and I fear I have wasted my time; and his. The former is of little consequence, but the latter I regret.'
As she so often did, out of a blessed unconsciousness that her mental position towards him was quite untenable, she appealed at once to that past confidence.
'Don't be angry, please! I was afraid there might be--difficulties. Sir George,' she smiled frankly, 'was in a very bad temper. I had just'--she broke off, realising that absolute confidence was impossible, then went on--'but you must not let that interfere with--with what you think advisable. And you do think with me, don't you? that it would be advisable to inquire whether--whether that unfortunate letter of mine----'
Jack Raymond, who had remained standing in impatient hesitation between his politeness and his desire to escape as soon as possible, stared at her.
'What letter?' he asked.
She rose too in sudden surprise, and they stood facing each other against that background of white marble and scarlet outspread poinsettia. 'Then it was something else,' she said; 'I thought it must be this.'
He took the letter she held out, and read it.