But if she was prepared for the encounter, the new-comer was taken completely by surprise. Entering the lift, she glanced casually at its other occupant; then her whole face changed.
"It is—— It can't be! It is Mrs. Milbanke!" Her glance passed rapidly over Clodagh's deep mourning and her expression altered in accordance. "My dear Mrs. Milbanke," she said softly, "how thoughtless of me not to realise at once! I heard through Mr. Barnard. How are you?—how are you?"
She pressed the hand Clodagh had offered her, and looked sympathetically into her face. Then, as the lift, gliding upwards, stopped at the first floor and Clodagh rose, her expression changed again.
"Are you located on this floor? How delightful! We are neighbours. I am number five. What are you?"
"Seven," Clodagh said gently, speaking for the first time. There was something very strange to her in this meeting—something not altogether unpleasant. In the two years since they had met—and in the light of her last evening in Venice—the image of Lady Frances Hope had become slightly distorted. And there was a sense of surprise, of reassurance in finding her so kindly, so gracious, so unalarming.
"Seven!" Lady Frances repeated. "Delightful! You must dine with me to-night. I have a private room, and am quite alone. It will be an act of charity. I am on my way south. By the way, where are you bound for?"
Clodagh smiled.
"I am going home."
"Home?"
"To England."