“A young man is asking for you, sir,” he said to Shelton, bending down discreetly; “I don't know if you would wish to see him, sir.”
“A young man!” repeated Shelton; “what sort of a young man?”
“I should say a sort of foreigner, sir,” apologetically replied the butler. “He's wearing a frock-coat, but he looks as if he had been walking a good deal.”
Shelton rose with haste; the description sounded to him ominous.
“Where is he?”
“I put him in the young ladies' little room, sir.”
“All right,” said Shelton; “I 'll come and see him. Now, what the deuce!” he thought, running down the stairs.
It was with a queer commingling of pleasure and vexation that he entered the little chamber sacred to the birds, beasts, racquets, golf-clubs, and general young ladies' litter. Ferrand was standing underneath the cage of a canary, his hands folded on his pinched-up hat, a nervous smile upon his lips. He was dressed in Shelton's old frock-coat, tightly buttoned, and would have cut a stylish figure but far his look of travel. He wore a pair of pince-nez, too, which somewhat veiled his cynical blue eyes, and clashed a little with the pagan look of him. In the midst of the strange surroundings he still preserved that air of knowing, and being master of, his fate, which was his chief attraction.
“I 'm glad to see you,” said Shelton, holding out his hand.
“Forgive this liberty,” began Ferrand, “but I thought it due to you after all you've done for me not to throw up my efforts to get employment in England without letting you know first. I'm entirely at the end of my resources.”