“Not a word then to Armstrong.”
“I do not tiddle-taddle,” said Leronde stiffly. “That’s right. I trust you, old fellow. Come back at six, and we’ll go and dine in Soho.”
“But—the lady?”
“Bah! Nonsense, man! This is business. Au revoir—till six.”
Pacey hurried back and closed both doors, to find his visitors standing in the middle of the room, Cornel pale and anxious, and her brother stern, distant, and angry of eye.
“I did not expect you, Miss Thorpe,” cried Pacey warmly. “Pray sit down.”
“I think my sister and I can finish our interview without sitting down, sir. You are Mr Joseph Pacey?”
“I am,” said the artist, as coldly now as the speaker.
“And you wrote to my sister—”
“Michael, dear, I will speak to Mr Pacey, please,” said Cornel, and she turned to the artist and held out her hand. “Thank you for writing to me, Mr Pacey,” she continued. “I thought it better, as my brother was coming to England, to accompany him and see you myself.”