"Well, what do you think she wants? She looks respectable?"
"I don't know about that, sir. It's her ladyship, sir."
"It's what 'ladyship,' Gleg?"
"Her ladyship, sir—Lady Tynemouth."
Stafford looked at Gleg meditatively for a minute, and then said quietly:
"Let me see, you have been with me sixteen years, Gleg. You've forgotten me often enough in that time, but you've never forgotten yourself before. Come to me to-morrow at noon.... I shall allow you a small pension. Show her ladyship in."
Gone waxen in face, Gleg crept out of the room.
"Seven-and-six a week, I suppose," he said to himself as he went down the stairs. "Seven-and-six for a bit of bonhommy."
With great consideration he brought Lady Tynemouth up, and shut the door with that stillness which might be reverence, or something at its antipodes.
Lady Tynemouth smiled cheerily at Ian as she held out her hand.