And now, while a clamorous longing to see Clare once again—to hear her voice, to feel the touch of her hand, though all for the last time in life—rose in his heart, and while conning over the terms in which he was to address her, and how, in their now altered relations, he was to comport himself with her from whom he had been so cruelly separated by no fault of either, he actually hoped that, if not from home, she might at least be engaged with visitors.
Full of such conflicting thoughts, he rang the bell a second time. The lofty door of the huge house was slowly unfolded by a tall powdered lackey of six feet and some odd inches, the inevitable 'Jeames,' of the plush and cauliflower head, who glanced suspiciously at a glazed sword-case and small travelling-bag which Chute had taken from his cab.
'Is Sir Carnaby at home?'
'No, sir—gone to his club,' was the reply, languidly given.
'Mrs. Beverley, then?'
'She does not see anyone—to-day, at least.'
'Miss Collingwood?'
She was at home, and on receiving the card of Chute, the valet, who knew that his name was not on the visitors' list, again looked suspiciously at the bag and sword-case, and while marvelling 'what line the "Captain" was in—barometers, French jewellery, or fancy soaps,' passed the card to a 'gentleman' in plain clothes, and after some delay and formality our friend was ushered upstairs.
Again he found himself in that familiar drawing-room—but alone.
It seemed as if not a day had elapsed since he had last stood there, and that all the intervening time was a dream, and that he and Clare were as they might have been.