That sensitive complexion of hers had paled at the interruption, just as at the mention of Rannock's name, and a gloomy look had come into her eyes. The visitor could hardly have been the bringer of pleasant things.
"An old friend of yours?" hazarded Faunce.
"Oh lord, yes; old enough! I've known him since I was a kid."
"But apparently not a favourite of yours?"
"I've got no favourites," she answered curtly. "All I want is to go my own way, and not to be bothered."
"Nobody can call that an unreasonable desire, madam. And now will you be so very kind as to oblige me with one of your photographs—one that, in your own opinion, does you most justice."
"Then it had better be one that wasn't taken yesterday," she said. "They wipe the wrinkles out, but they can't hide the lantern jaws. Oh, you can have a photo if you want one; I've got plenty. The photographers were the plague of my life when I was on the boards, and as long as I was about London, driving my carriage. But they've left off worrying now. There's new faces in the market."
"None handsomer than yours, madam."
She dragged open a reluctant drawer in an ill-made mahogany sideboard, and produced half a dozen cabinet photographs, from which Faunce selected two of the best, with polite acknowledgment of the favour.
"You have my address, Mrs. Randall," he said, rising, and taking up his hat; "let me know if you change your quarters."