The old gentleman indicated Home Rest impatiently.
"Next door," he snapped, "Dr. Page lives next door!"
Conrad retreated with hasty apologies, feeling considerably foolish. He would have preferred to stroll awhile before repeating his exordium, and only the consciousness of being watched by the old gentleman who had misled him constrained him to unlatch the gate.
A neat servant answered that Dr. Page was not at home. He was relieved.
"I'll call again," he said. "When do you expect him to come in?"
"Oh, he's away, sir, he won't be back for two or three days. Would you like to see Mrs. Page, sir?"
He had no remembrance of a Mrs. Page, but there was the objection to travelling fruitlessly, and the thought that a woman would be susceptible to the prettiness of his visit. He hesitated—he answered that he would. The girl conducted him to a small, cheerless drawing-room, and returned to say that Mrs. Page would be down in a few minutes. There were antimacassars everywhere, and the cold white mantelpiece exhibited the perpetual porcelain courtship which has never advanced; the amorous male still smirked inanely, and the simpering maiden seemed still to hope. Conrad was much attracted by a large album that reposed on an occasional table. He sat tempted to unclasp it, and had just risen and made a tentative step in its direction when he heard the doorknob move.
The lady who came in seemed to deprecate her entrance; she was evidently timid, and she blinked. He thought at first that she suffered from some affection of the eyes, but when she spoke, he opined that the blinking was due entirely to nervousness.
"Mr. Warrener?" she said in a whisper.
"Mrs. Page," he began, "I must crave your pardon for intruding on you in this fashion. It's very audacious of me because, even when I tell you who I am, I daren't suppose that you will recollect me."