He was in a position to take notice of her when she met him face to face coming out of the hotel door when she was at the point of entering.
“Go in and make your enquiries, ma’am,” he said grimly. “You will find out whether your opinion or mine of your son is the true one.”
“What, is it possible that—that—he—they——”
“They are here. Make your enquiries.”
He went away, and she entered the hotel and hastened to the office.
Oh, yes; Mr. Wingfield was staying there, the young lady said.
“Alone?” asked the mother.
“Only Mrs. Wingfield. They will be in for lunch at one. They have been sailing since morning,” was the reply.
Mrs. Wingfield could scarcely walk so far as the coffee-room. When she managed to do so, she found that her maid had justified the character she had always borne for thoughtfulness: a slice of cold chicken and a small bottle of dry Ayala were on the table in front of her.
“You must eat and drink now,” she said. “This promised to be one of your good days; but that rush to the train and that long journey will go far to make it one of your worst if we are not careful.”