It was nearly six o'clock when he drove up to the door of Hilton House. Carlo Toas admitted him, and favoured him with a searching and somewhat severe scrutiny, as he led the way to the drawing-room in which Paulina was wont to receive her guests.
Here Sir Reginald felt some little surprise, and a touch of mortification, on beholding the aspect of things. He had expected to find Paulina pensive, unhappy, perhaps ill. He had expected to see her agitated at his coming. He had pondered much upon the cessation of her letters; and he had told himself that she had ceased to write because she was angry with him—with that anger which exists only where there is love.
To his surprise, he found her brilliant, radiant, dressed in her most charming style.
Never had he seen her looking more beautiful or more happy.
He pressed the widow's hand tenderly, and contemplated her for some moments in silence.
"My dear Paulina," he said at last, "I never saw you looking more lovely than to-night. And yet to-night I almost feared to find you ill."
"Indeed; and why so?" she asked. Her tone was the ordinary tone of society, from which it was impossible to draw any inference.
"Because it is so long since I heard from you."
"I have grown tired of writing letters that were rarely honoured by your notice."
"So, so," thought the baronet; "I was right. She is offended."