“He is looking at you now.”
Miss Mazerod looked up and bowed with a little jerk, as if she felt too young to be stately; one of those bows that say “Come here.”
At this moment the younger man came up and shook hands effusively with Dora, slowly with Miss Mazerod.
“Jack,” said that young lady, “I have just beamed on General Michael, who is behind you. I want to introduce him to Dora.”
Jack seemed to think this an excellent idea, and stepped aside with alacrity.
Seymour Michael came forward with his pleasant smile. He certainly was one of the most distinguished-looking men in the room, with a brilliant ribbon across his breast, and that smart, well-brushed general effect which stamps the successful soldier.
“When did you come back to England?” inquired Edith Mazerod, whose father had worked with this man in India.
“I—oh! I have been home six months,” he replied, shaking hands with a subtle empressemant which was more effective than words.
“On leave?”
“No. Laid on the shelf.”