As he spoke the carriage stopped a few rods beyond them, and a lady, who was neither young nor beautiful, put her head out of the window and motioned to Lancaster with her lifted finger. Muttering an apology to his companion, the young man strode forward, wondering what new adventure might be in store for him. But on reaching the carriage-door his wonder came to an end. There were two ladies inside, and only one of them was unbeautiful. The other was young and in every way attractive. Her appearance and manner were those of a personage of distinction, but her fair visage was alive with a subtle luminousness and mobility of expression which made formality in her seem a playful grace rather than an artificial habit. The margin of her face was swathed in the soft folds of a silken hood, but a strand of reddish hair curled across her white forehead, and a pair of dark, swift-moving and very penetrating eyes met with a laughing sparkle the eyes of Lancaster. He doffed his hat.
“Madame la Marquise! In England! Where is Monsieur?—”
“Hush! You are the same as ever—you meet me after six months, and instead of saying you are glad to see me, you ask where is the Marquis! Ma foi! don’t know where he is.”
“Surely Madame la Marquise does not need to be told how glad I am—”
“Pshaw! Don’t ‘Madame la Marquise’ me, Philip Lancaster! Are we not old friends—old enough, eh? Tell me what you were doing walking along this road with that shabby old man?”
“Old gentleman, Madame la Marquise. The coach was upset—”
“What! You were on that coach that we passed just now in the ditch? You were not hurt?”
“If it had not been for this shabby old gentleman I might have been a cripple for life.”
“Oh! I beg his pardon. Where do you go, then? To London?”
“Not so far. I shall look for lodgings in Hammersmith.”