‘Yours always,
‘Maurice Clissold.’
‘Saturday evening.’
He found her ready to receive him next morning at eleven, fresh and fair in her simple autumn dress of fawn-coloured cashmere, with neat linen collar and cuffs, a blue ribbon and silver locket, her sole ornaments.
His letter had filled her with vague apprehensions which Matthew Elgood’s arguments had not been able to dispel.
‘What business can you have to talk about with me?’ she asked, nervously, as she and Maurice shook hands. ‘I hope it is nothing dreadful. Your letter has kept me in a fever ever since I received it.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. I ought to have said less, or more. It is a serious business, but I hope not one that need give you pain, except so far as your tenderness and compassion may be concerned for others. The story I am going to tell you is a sad one, and has to do with your own infancy.’
‘I can’t understand,’ she said, with a perplexed look.
‘Don’t try to understand until I have told you more. I shall make everything very clear to you in due time.’
‘Papa may hear, I suppose?’ said she, with a glance at the comedian, who had laid down his after-breakfast pipe, and was looking far from comfortable.