Joan, who was seated on the horsehair sofa reading, or pretending to read a book, rose instinctively at the words, and stared at her veiled and stately-looking visitor.
“Surely,” she said, “you are Lady Graves?”
“Yes, Miss Haste, I am Lady Graves, and I have taken the liberty of coming to see you. I am told that you have been ill.”
Joan bowed her head and sank back upon the sofa, pointing towards a chair. At the moment she could not trust herself to speak, for she felt that the blow which she dreaded was about to fall, and that Henry’s mother came as a messenger of ill.
Lady Graves sat down, and for a while there was silence.
“I trust that you are better,” she said at length.
“Thank you, yes, your ladyship; I am almost well again now.”
“I am glad of that, Miss Haste, for I do not wish to upset you, or retard your recovery, and I have come to speak to you, if I have your permission, upon a very delicate and important matter.”
Again Joan bowed, and Lady Graves went on.
“Miss Haste, certain things have come to my knowledge of which I need only allude to one namely, that my son Henry is anxious to make you his wife, as indeed, if what I have learned is true, you have a right to expect,” and she paused.