Before she could reply articulately, Jones interposed; an idea had suddenly entered his practical mind.
“Good heavens,” said he, “what has become of your luggage?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied the roused one, “let it go with the rest.”
The car drew up.
“You will stay with us to-night, I suppose,” said Venetia coldly.
“I suppose so,” replied the other.
Jones got out.
“I will call here to-morrow morning at nine o’clock,” said he. “I want the whole family present.”—Then, to the unfortunate wife of the defunct Rochester—“Don’t worry about what took place this evening. It was all my fault. You will think differently about me when you hear all in the morning.”
She sighed and passed up the steps following Venetia like a woman in a dream. When the door closed on them he took the number of the house, then at the street corner he looked at the name of the street. It was Curzon street. Then he walked home.
Come what might he had done a good evening’s work. More than ever did he feel the charm of this woman, her loyalty, her power of honest love.