That night, as Richard Arden bid him good-bye, his uncle said, coldly enough,—
“By-the-bye, Richard, would you mind looking in upon me to-morrow, at five in the afternoon? I shall have a word to say to you.”
So the appointment was made, and Richard entered his cab, and drove into town dismally.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
MR. LONGCLUSE SEES A LADY'S NOTE.
Next day Mr. Longcluse paid an early visit at Uncle David's house, and saw Miss Maubray in the drawing-room. The transition from that young lady's former, to her new life, was not less dazzling than that of the heroine of an Arabian tale, who is transported by friendly genii, while she sleeps, from a prison to the palace of a sultan. Uncle David did not care for finery; no man's tastes could be simpler and more camp-like. But these drawing-rooms were so splendid, so elegant and refined, and yet so gorgeous in effect, that you would have fancied that he had thought of nothing else all his life but china, marqueterie, buhl, Louis Quatorze clocks, mirrors, pale-green and gold cabriole chairs, bronzes, pictures, and all the textile splendours, the names of which I know not, that make floors and windows magnificent.
The feminine nature, facile and self-adapting, had at once accommodated itself to the dominion over all this, and all that attended it. And Miss Maubray being a lady, a girl who had, in her troubled life, been much among high-bred people—her father a gentle, fashionable, broken-down man, and her mother a very elegant and charming woman—there was no contrast, in look, air, or conversation, to mark that all this was new to her: on the contrary, she became it extremely.
The young lady was sitting at the piano when Longcluse came in, and to the expiring vibration of the chord at which she was interrupted she rose, with that light, floating ascent which is so pretty, and gave him her hand, and welcomed him with a very bright smile. She thought he was a likely person to be able to throw some light upon two rumours which interested her.