She led Gerard into a long room with a dining-table at one end, and every accessory of a boudoir at the other. Among her flowers and her canaries, her fancy-work and her pet dogs she seated herself in a high arm-chair which seemed specially designed to show off her handsome, erect figure and clever, sympathetic face; and then her dark eyes softened as she turned to her guest and said—
“And so your name is Buckland? Tell me, are you any relation to Sir Joseph Buckland, of the Norfolk branch of the family?”
“I am his grandson,” answered Gerard.
“Dear me! How singular! And I danced with him at the ball he gave on the coming of age of his eldest son!”
“My uncle,” said Gerard. “He’s dead now.”
“Dear me! Jo Buckland dead! Then you are the heir to the title, surely!”
“Yes, but not very much more, I’m afraid.”
“Well, well, they tell me you’re very clever, and that you’ll bring back fortune to the old house.”
“Who told you that?” asked Gerard, surprised.
“My protégé, Rachel Davison. She heard it from the people at whose house she met you.”