Down the garden pathway came a trim maidservant, who could never guess how John Everard hated her for at least one moment of her life.
“A gentleman in the drawing-room, miss, to see you,” the girl said.
“A gentleman to see me? Who?”
“He would not give a name, miss. He said you might not recognise it. He wishes to see you on business.” Joan frowned. Who could it be? Yet it was someone waiting, someone here.
“I shall not be long,” she said to Johnny, and perhaps was glad of the excuse to leave him.
“I will wait till you come back, Joan.”
She smiled and nodded, and hastened to the house and the drawing-room, and, opening the door, went in to find herself face to face with Philip Slotman.
Philip Slotman, of all living people! She stared at him in amaze, almost doubting the evidence of her sight. What did he here? How dared he come here and thrust himself on her notice? How dared he send that lying message by the maid, that she might not recognise his name?
“You’ve got a nice place here, Joan,” he said with easy familiarity. “Things have looked up a bit for you, eh? I notice you haven’t said you are glad to see me. Aren’t you going to shake hands?”