He crossed the wide marble paved hall, observing as he passed a young woman, obviously an abigail, seated on the edge of a straight chair, and clutching her reticule in a frightened manner. Miss Winwood, then, had not come quite unattended.
One of the lackeys sprang to throw open the massive mahogany door that led into the small saloon, and my lord went in.
A lady, not so tall as he had expected to see, was standing with her back to the door, apparently inspecting an oil painting that hung on the far wall. She turned quickly as he came in, and showed him a face that certainly did not belong to Miss Winwood. He checked for a moment, looking down at her in some surprise.
The face under the simple straw hat also showed surprise. “Are you L-Lord Rule?” demanded the lady.
He was amused. “I have always believed so,” he replied.
“Why, I th-thought you were quite old!” she informed him ingenuously.
“That,” said his lordship with perfect gravity, “was unkind in you. Did you come to see me in order to—er—satisfy yourself as to my appearance?”
She blushed fierily. “P-please forgive m-me!” she begged, stammering dreadfully. “It w-was very r-rude of m-me, only you s-see I was surprised just for the m-moment.”
“If you were surprised, ma’am, what can I be but deeply flattered?” said the Earl. “But if you did not come to look me over, do you think you could tell me what it is I am to have the honour of doing for you?”
The bright eyes looked resolutely into his. “Of c-course, you don’t know who I am,” said the visitor. “I’m afraid I d-deceived you a little. I was afraid if you knew it was not L-Lizzie you might not receive me. But it was not quite a l-lie to say I was Miss W-Winwood,” she added anxiously. “B-be-cause I am, you know. I’m Horry Winwood.”