“I don’t know until you take your hat off,” she replied gently, but wondering how long it might be since her distinguished cousin had gone out to dinner.
Rupert snatched off the hat and thrust it into the unwilling hands of one of the door footmen, for it was not his business to receive hats. Then, piloted by other footmen who met them at intervals, at length Miss Bonnythorne and Colonel Ullershaw were announced, in stentorian tones, at the threshold of the great drawing-room.
On the further side of the apartment two men were leaning against a marble mantel-piece, for the night was chilly, and a small fire burned on the hearth; while at a little distance, engaged apparently in looking straight before her, a placid, handsome-looking woman of stout proportions, with great coils of hair wound about her head, sat upon an Empire sofa, her hands folded upon her plain black dress, which was unrelieved by any jewellery.
For a moment Rupert’s recognition of the men was merely automatic, since all his attention was taken up by the splendid mantel-piece that he remembered well, and on which he seemed to see the ghost of Clara leaning as she was wont to do. Yes; it was the same that had stood in her boudoir, moved here as too valuable to be left in the old mansion. He could not mistake those statues which supported the shelf above. A mist gathered before his eyes, and when it cleared he saw Lord Devene advancing on him with outstretched hand, nodding affectionately to Edith as he came.
The same man, he thought, only several degrees greyer in tone, and not quite so firm in his walk. Then, in the actual presence of his enemy—for so he felt him to be, now as always—the courage of the conscience-haunted Rupert returned to him, and he determined to play his part to the best of his ability.
As he approached, Lord Devene was thinking to himself: “Edith summed him up very well, as usual—a bear, but a fine, right-minded bear who has learnt his lesson once and for all. It is written on his face.” Then he said in the most hearty fashion that he was able to command, though no affectation of cordiality could altogether deaden the brassy ring of that well-remembered voice:
“Ah! here you are, punctual as a soldier should be, and very welcome, I can tell you, my dear Rupert. I am delighted to see you back safe and sound, and bringing your sheaves with you in the shape of all sorts of honours,” and taking Rupert’s great, sunburnt palm in his dry hand, he shook it, adding: “Why, what a big fellow you have become in every sense of the word. Don’t ask me to mount you this season.”
“Thank you,” said Rupert simply, then fixing on the allusion to his personal appearance as easiest to deal with, went on. “Afraid one is apt to grow stout in Egypt. Can’t get enough exercise, too much sun there. How are you?”
Then he stopped, for another voice, also well-remembered, was addressing him, and he turned to see his cousin Dick. Undoubtedly, even at that moment he noticed it, for by constitution and training Rupert was observant, Dick was a very handsome man. The dark and languid eyes looked a little tired, it was true, and the oval face had lost some of its colour. Still, it and the graceful, shapely form remained attractive to behold—at least, so thought many women.
“How do you do, my hero of a hundred fights?” said Dick, in the drawling, rather sarcastic voice which had always irritated his cousin as a boy, and still irritated him to-day.