Keene was there, leaning over someone lying on a sofa.
He turned to greet her, and then Muriel gave a little cry and ran forward to kneel by the couch.
“You!” she said. “Oh! Mr. Leighton, this is so delightful. I never dared to hope that you would come to London.”
The picturesque-looking man, sadly worn and wasted physically, lying back on the cushions, gave a warm smile, and took her hands in his.
“When your letter reached me, child, telling of your success, I felt tempted to try to get to town; but—you know my weakness and dislike to being seen.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “I know; and,” with a quick flush, “Mr. Keene managed it, I am sure.”
“He found me out through you, child, of course. And yesterday, Francis,” to the actor who had left them alone, “I wonder if you realised what it was to me to see you? It was like old times—”
Keene came back and went round to the other side from Muriel, leaning forward and putting one hand caressingly on Leighton’s shoulder.
When he spoke, Muriel knew that he was putting stern control over himself, not letting the emotion he felt be detected by the swift, restless eyes that now and then lit up with all the fire and intellect of a great actor’s enthusiasm.
It was no light thing, the meeting of the two men, separated by nearly ten years’ absence.