Jardine, the chauffeur, holding open the door of the car saw nothing out of the common. James, the footman, coming down the steps to take the rugs and handbags, little dreamed that here was a meeting between lovers who ten years ago had parted in tears and an agony of heartbroken hopelessness.
For Lady Kathleen was herself again, she was smiling, and if the colour had not yet returned to her cheeks, who was to notice so insignificant a fact? Not James and Jardine, not Lord Gowerhurst certainly.
"And so this is Homewood, eh Kathleen? Quite a nice little place; reminds me a little of—of Clamberwick, Normandyke'a seat in Cumberland, but smaller of course, a great deal smaller. Had some deuced good fishing there I remember. Thought you'd like to see Harold again, hey? By the way he is Sir Harold now, Governor of somewhere or other. The world's treated him decently, yes decently, eh Harold? And quite right too, I like to see a man work his way up in the world."
"I am glad to hear it," Kathleen said. "I am sure that any fortune that has come to Mr. Scar—to Sir Harold Scarsdale, has been fairly and honestly won—and thoroughly deserved."
"Ha, ha, nicely put, very simply and nicely put, eh Scarsdale?" said his lordship. "Give me your arm, my dear, I'm confoundedly cramped, getting to be an old fellow now. One of these days I may ask my daughter to find some corner, some out of-the-way corner by the fire for the old man, eh? Some obscure place where the old man may sit and dream away his last days. It's the fall of the leaf, my dear, the fall of the leaf. As I rode through your beautiful country a while ago, I saw the leaves all strewn on the road and I thought—as with the year, so with me—my leaves are falling, all wrinkled and brown. And yet it seems but yesterday since I put them on so fresh and green, hey, so fresh and green and—and——"
He was talking the arrant nonsense he loved, in the self-pitying style Kathleen knew only too well. She shivered, but not with her usual impatience of the humbug of it. How had he dared—dared to bring this man? How had he dared to make friendly overtures to one whom he had grossly and cruelly insulted ten years ago? And Harold himself? It shocked her to think that he could come here—that he could bring himself to accept her and Allan's hospitality. She had not looked at him since that first quick glance, and short though that had been, it had shewn her the change in him. The boy she had known—and loved—was gone—this man, she felt, she hardly knew. She asked herself even now, had she foolishly made an ideal of that lad, or had she idealised her love for him? she wondered—but it hurt her that he was here now.
Lord Gowerhurst, leaning far more heavily than he need on her arm, entered the house. He betrayed no interest in it. The finely panelled walls, the carefully selected and diligently sought after "Period" furniture, the vista from the windows of the wonderful old English garden in its autumnal glory, interested him not at all. He was talking of himself, which was the most interesting topic he could think of.
"I'm not eating too well, my dear, a bad sign, hey, a bad sign, and my sleep is broken—terribly broken. I never was one of the "fat kine" my love, but I'm growing noticeably thinner. I declare to you that Crombie, my man, is positively shocked at the falling off in my girth and Darbey, my tailor, poor fellow, is getting quite anxious about me."
Kathleen told herself that she ought to have known, ought to have anticipated it, yet she felt hurt that he took so little interest in her home. He never looked at anything; he sat down in a delightful Hepplewhite chair, a chair that the great Davenham had undertaken a seventy-five mile journey to secure. He sat down in the chair and stared at the very pointed toes of his exquisite boots.
"I'm not my own man, no, my love, I don't wish to pain you, I know how sensitive you are, what a loving heart my child has; I don't wish to rouse one anxiety in your mind, my love, but I feel age, old age creeping on."