VIII
The scattered party was suddenly strung to tensity; Morosine drew himself up, stiff as steel, but stood his ground. Here was the man he had waited for, who was necessary to him. Lady Maria, blinking her little black eyes, Melusine, with hers in a blur of mist, Gerald Scales, level and impassive, joined the other three.
Ingram, with a stretched smile, was volubly explaining. “I've been in London a week—to-day's the first glimpse of the sun I've had. I do think they might make better arrangements for a man home from Africa. I met your mother last night at a play. She told me that I might see you here.” He turned, without effrontery, to greet Melusine. “Ages since we have met. Ah, Scales, how are you?”
The tall Melusine stooped her head; Scales nodded, then, by an afterthought, shook hands. “I'm very fit, thanks,” he said. “Been travelling?”
Sanchia sought the side of Lady Maria, to whom she named Ingram. His exaggerated bow was accepted. “So you've arrived, I see,” said Lady Maria.
“One does, you know.” Ingram shrugged at the inevitable. “All roads lead to Rome.”
“Most roads lead to Lady Maria,” Morosine said to Sanchia, who replied from her heart, “I'm very glad that mine did.” Moved either by loyalty to his friendship, or touched by his recent words, she then brought him bodily into play. “Mr. Nevile Ingram; Prince Morosine.”
The two men inclined; Morosine lifted his hat, Ingram touched his brim.