After a moment's wait Mrs. Asshlin's querulous voice was raised in response.
"Well?" she asked. "What is it? Who's there?"
"Clodagh."
There was an audible sigh. And the usual "Come in!" followed somewhat tardily.
Clodagh instantly turned the handle and opened the door.
In this room the blinds had not yet been drawn up, and only a yellowish light filtered in from outside; in the grate a fire burned unevenly; and close beside sat Mrs. Asshlin, a cup of tea in her hand, a black woollen shawl wrapped about her shoulders. As her niece entered, she glanced round irritably, drawing the wrap more closely round her.
"Shut the door, Clodagh!" she said. "I hate these big, draughty houses."
Clodagh obeyed in silence; then walking deliberately across the room, paused by her aunt's chair. Her face was still burning, her heart was beating unpleasantly fast.
"Aunt Fan," she said, "I want to ask you something. Why should Mr. Milbanke bother about me—about us?"
Mrs. Asshlin, startled by the suddenness of the unlooked-for attack, turned in her seat and peered through the yellow twilight into her niece's excited face.