She descended the stairs with a new sensation of elasticity and elation; and at its foot found Milbanke awaiting her in conversation with a suave, elderly man.
As she came within speaking distance, the two turned towards her.
"My dear!" Milbanke said quickly, "allow me to introduce Mr. David Barnard! David, this is my—my wife!"
Clodagh looked up curiously, and met the florid face, bland smile, and observant eyes of Barnard—a man who for nearly a quarter of a century had managed to prosper in his profession, and at the same time to retain a prominent place in fashionable society. As their glances met, she held out her hand.
"How d'you do!" she said. "I believe I've been wanting to know you ever since I heard you laugh one day two years ago."
She spoke warmly—impulsively—almost as Denis Asshlin might have spoken. Involuntarily Milbanke glanced at her with a species of surprise. In that moment she was neither the frank, fearless child he had first known, nor the self-contained, unfathomable girl who had since become his daily companion. In the crowded, cosmopolitan atmosphere of the hotel, she seemed suddenly to display a new individuality.
Barnard took her outstretched hand, and bowed over it impressively.
"It is very charming of you to say that, Mrs. Milbanke," he murmured. "But I'm afraid James has told me that you come from Ireland!"
Clodagh laughed.
"He'll also tell you that I lived quite forty miles from the Blarney stone!"