"Excuse me, my lady! But Lord Deerehurst and Mr. Serracauld are in the drawing-room. Franks thought your ladyship would wish to know."
"Quite right. Thank you, Rees! Clodagh, are you ready?"
Clodagh's face was slightly flushed from her momentary outbreak, as she left the bedroom. Descending the stairs, Lady Frances moved to her side and passed her hand through her arm: and at the touch, a sharp repulsion to this friendship—this fair weather, effusive, superficial friendship—surged through her. And yet where was she to find a firmer sentiment? Where, in all the world, was there a being who had any real need of her? Her aunt? Her cousin? She knew instinctively that their world and her own were inevitably sundered. Nance? Had not even Nance—the little Nance of childish days—already begun to gather interests of her own—to form her own friendships? No; there was no niche that especially claimed, that especially needed her!
At this point in her hasty and confused speculations, the door of the drawing-room was thrown open: and, after an interval of two years, she saw Lord Deerehurst and Serracauld.
More than once she had pictured the meeting with the old peer; but, as is invariably the case, the reality was much more vivid than the imagination had been. Deerehurst came forward with the stiff, courtly manner that brought back with almost painful clearness the balcony of the Venetian palace—the Venetian salon with its polished floor and glittering chandeliers—the Venetian night-music borne across the waters. It all surged back in a wave of memory—first a pang of pain, then a pang of reckless self-contempt. After all, who cared? What did her action—her manner of living—even her existence—matter to any living soul? She held out her hand and allowed him to bow over it.
He bowed over it for a long time; then he raised his head and looked at her. His pale, inscrutable face was as waxlike as ever; his eyes were as cold, as penetrating, as old in their look of supreme wisdom.
"So we meet again," he said. "My hope has been fulfilled!"
For a moment Clodagh stood, permitting him to clasp her fingers and look into her face, while she herself made no effort to speak; then, as if suddenly conscious of something strange in the position, she freed her hand with a little, nervous laugh, and turned to where Serracauld was waiting to greet her.
With a smile and a gesture of easy familiarity the younger man came forward.
"Welcome to England!" he said. "Only yesterday a man at my club was telling me of the prettiest woman on the Riviera this year. I won't be personal, but the lady was at Monte Carlo only a week ago—turning other people's heads and emptying her own pockets with the most delightful impartiality."