Hugh felt in his pockets. He had not one.
"Never mind," he said, opening the door. "I've plenty inside. Come in."
Hugh went in first, extricating his key. Captain Pratt followed, murmuring, "Nice little dens, these. A pal of mine lives just above—Streatham. You know Streatham, son of Lord—"
The remainder of the sentence was lost.
The door opened straight into the little sitting-room.
A woman in deep mourning rose suddenly out of a chair by the fire and came towards them.
"Hughie!" she said.
It was Lady Newhaven.
It is probable that none of the tableaux she had arranged were quite so dramatic as this one, in which she had not reckoned on that elaborate figure in the door-way.
Captain Pratt's opinion of Hugh, whom he had hitherto regarded as a pauper with an involved estate, leaped from temperate to summer heat—blood-heat. After the first instant he kept his eyes steadily fixed on Hugh.