“Yes. I shall have the pleasure of seeing you in London when you return.”
Their hands met in a firm clasp. Mrs. Devar, too flustered at first to gasp more than an “Oh!” of astonishment, leaned forward and shook his hand with marked cordiality.
“You must tell Dale to take great care of us,” she said, knowingly.
“I think he realizes the exceeding trust I repose in him,” he said, but the accompanying smile was meant for Cynthia, and she read into it a farewell that presaged many things.
He disappeared without another word. When a slim, elegantly-gowned lady had hastened to the door from the drawing-room, whence she was summoned by a page, she found two dust-covered figures in the act of alighting from a well-appointed car. Her next glance was at the solemn jowl of the chauffeur.
“Cynthia, my darling girl!” she cried, with arms thrown wide.
There could be no doubting the heartiness of the greeting, and in that motherly embrace Cynthia felt a repose, a security, that she had been willfully skeptical of during many weary hours. But polite usage called for an introduction, and Mrs. Leland and Mrs. Devar eyed each other warily, with the smiles of convention.
Mrs. Leland glanced at Dale.
“And who is this?” she asked, seizing the opportunity to settle a point that was perplexing her strangely.
“Our chauffeur,” said Cynthia, and a glint of fun showed through the wanness of her cheeks.