Grace turned in surprise.
“No. What makes you ask that, Mr. Thomson?”
“I’m sure I beg your pardon, madam; but I saw Mr. Carling’s things in the hall and his table there, just as he liked to have it when he was with Sir Robert, and I thought—I hoped——”
“They are ready for his home-coming,” said Grace. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Thomson? This is my friend, Miss Culpepper. Why, do you know each other?”
For Miss Culpepper, who had risen hastily at their entrance, was staring at Thomson in a most curious and agitated manner. “It can’t be—yes, it is!” she gasped. “James—James Thomson—don’t you know me?”
He looked at her inquiringly and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, madam, you have the advantage of me. What name did you say?”
“Maria Culpepper, that was maid to Lady Robinson when you were Sir Henry’s valet. I was thinking of you, and of those old days not five minutes ago. You’ve forgotten me years ago, I can see that, but I’ve never forgotten you, James, though you never wrote as you said you would!”
He put up his gloved hand and rubbed his chin meditatively, then removed the glove and extended the hand with conventional politeness.
“To be sure, Miss Maria. I remember you now, though it’s a good many years ago. I’ve been with Sir Robert near forty years. Strange to meet you again like this—very strange; and with Mrs. Carling’s permission I might call some night and have a chat over old times, but I’m a bit pressed for time just now, and have something urgent and private to say to Mrs. Carling.”