"Of course I shall go," ran his thoughts, "but I've made rather an ass of myself, taking such trouble to find her!"
CHAPTER VI
The man to whom he gave his ticket at the station of Balham and Upper Tooting told him that he could walk to Hyperion Terrace in about ten minutes. He perceived that he would reach the house too early if he proceeded there at once, so he strolled awhile in the opposite direction. The pavements were dry, and he was thankful, for he had seen no cab when he came down the station stairs, and he would have been chagrined to present himself in muddy boots.
When he estimated that he would arrive at Beau Séjour none too soon to be welcome, he retraced his steps, and now anticipation warmed his blood once more. After all, she was the woman who had been Mary Page—it was a piece of his boyhood that awaited him. Indeed he was repentant that he had cavilled at minor defects. By dint of inquiries he found the way to Hyperion Terrace. It was new, and red, and all that a man who could call a street "Hyperion Terrace" would naturally create.
A very small servant, wearing a very pretentious cap, showed him at once to the drawing-room, where "The Soul's Awakening" met his distressed view, on a pink and gold wall-paper. He heard flying footsteps overhead, sounds of discomposure; there are houses at which a visitor always arrives too early. His nerves were tremulous while he sat alone. But Mary's home would have pleased him better if it had been no more than a single room, with a decent etching over a bed masquerading as a sideboard, and half-a-dozen shilling classics on a shelf.
"Mr. Warrener? How d' ye do?"
She advanced towards him with a wide smile, a large and masculine woman wearing a vivid silk blouse, and an air of having dressed herself in a hurry. She wore also—with a droll effort at deception—a string of "pearls" which, if it had been real, would have been worth more than the street. For an instant his heart seemed to drop into his stomach; and in the next an overwhelming compassion for her swept him. He could have shed tears for her, as he took her hand, and remembered that she had once been a dainty child.
"Mrs. Barchester-Bailey—so good of you to let me call."
"Oh, I'm sure it was very kind of you to come!" she said. "Won't you sit down? ... How very odd that you should have been living in Mowbray Lodge, isn't it? Quite a coincidence."