CHAPTER XIII
THE SMIRCHED IMAGE
All turned astonished faces. Just inside the oaken door swung wide open to the night, stood her ladyship, her features expressing a sense of humor struggling with dignity, and just behind her, with a look of blent puzzle and surprise, her stately niece, Annabel Milbanke. Mrs. Muhl, Gordon’s withered fire-lighter, was hovering in the rear.
It was a tense moment. Gordon’s glance swept Annabel’s face—distinguished a letter still unopened in her hand—as he came forward to greet them. A dull red was climbing over Cassidy’s sobering face, and with something between a gulp and a groan he got down heavily from his commanding position.
It was Lady Melbourne who broke the pause:
“I fear we intrude. We were driving across to Annesley where there is a ball to-night, and felt tempted to take your lordship with us. We had not known of your guests. Dr. Cassidy rode ahead to apprise you of our call.”
The doctor was mopping his mottled brow. He was far too miserable to reply.
“I fear our hospitality outran our discretion,” ventured Gordon. “The doctor perhaps forgot to mention it.”
Lady Melbourne’s quick gaze overran the scene and lingered on the crosses and the monkish robes with a slow-dawning smile.
Sheridan made a dramatic gesture. “Lo, the first poet of his age in the depths of one of his abandoned debauches!” He pointed to Mrs. Muhl who stood in the background, her wrinkled countenance as brown as a dry toast—“Behold the troop of Paphian damsels, as pictured in the Morning Post! Evasion is no longer possible.”
“I see. And you, Doctor?”