The garish sunlight struggled through the grimy panes. Under ordinary conditions the drawing-room was a luxurious one. But the fine dust of years had settled upon pictures and statues and upon the upholstery of the old Empire furniture. As Charlton paced to and fro a gossamer cloud of dust seemed to follow him.
In the centre of it all sat Leona. Lawrence could see now that there were marks and bruises on her face, the result of the autocar accident, which showed out now there was no artist to attend to them.
She sat with her hands folded in her lap grimly, patiently waiting for the novelist to speak. He produced a cigarette.
"You won't mind?" he said.
"I will have one with you," Leona replied. "That will be more comfortable. Now, will you be so good as to proceed?"
"We will go back to the beginning," Lawrence began. "Here is a very beautiful and fascinating woman, living all alone in her wealth. Her talents and her loveliness have taken her into the cream of society."
"Which isn't worth the trouble when you've got it."
"There I perfectly agree with you. But the lady I speak of is bound to lead. Wherever she is and whatever walk of life she finds herself in, she is bound to lead. She flashes out and dazzles London. She lives in a fine house and entertains royally. But there is one thing that puzzles me. Why does the lady reside so far from Park Lane or Belgravia or Mayfair?"
"Lytton Avenue houses are large and they have gardens."
Lawrence smiled as he flicked off the end of his cigarette.