At the corner of a street he took a cab; and as he drove to Lady May's, those fragments of his short talk with Grace Maubray that most interested him were tumbling over and over in his mind. “So they are angry, very angry; and very proud and haughty people. I had no business dreaming of an alliance with Mr. Richard Arden. Angry, he may be—he may affect to be—but I don't believe she is. And proud, is he? Proud of her he might be, but what else has he to boast of? Proud and angry—ha, ha! Angry and proud. We shall see. Such people sometimes grow suddenly mild and meek. And she has accepted Lord Wynderbroke. I doubt it. Miss Maubray, you are such a good-natured girl that, if you suspected the torture your story inflicted, you would invent it, rather than spare a fellow-mortal that pang.”
In this we know he was a little unjust.
“Well, Miss Arden, I understand your brother; I shall soon understand you. At present I hesitate. Alas! must I place you, too, in the schedule of my lost friends? Is it come to this?—
‘Once I held thee dear as pearl,
Now I do abhor thee.’”
Mr. Longcluse's chin rests on his breast as, with a faint smile, he thus ruminates.
The cab stops. The light frown that had contracted his eyebrows disappears, he glances quickly up at the drawing-room windows, mounts the steps, and knocks at the hall door.
“Is Lady May Penrose at home?” he asked.
“I'll inquire, Sir.”
Was it fancy, or was there in his reception something a little unusual, and ominous of exclusion?