“Give my card; and ask the lady if I can see her.”
“By Jove! that’s Cottrell!” muttered the ex-guardsman, recognising the voice.
“Sir Robert Cottrell” was upon the card brought in by the maid-of-all-work.
“Show him in?” whispered Swinton to the servant, without waiting to ask permission from Fan; who, expressing surprise at the unexpected visit, sprang to her feet, and glided back into the bedroom.
There was a strangeness in the fashion of his wife’s retreat, which the husband could scarce help perceiving. He took no notice of it, however, his mind at the moment busied with a useful idea that had suddenly suggested itself.
Little as he liked Sir Robert Cottrell, or much as he may have had imaginings about the object of his visit, Swinton at that moment felt inclined to receive him. The odour of the salt herring was in his nostrils; and he was in a mood to prefer the perfume that exhales from the cambric handkerchief of a débonnaire baronet—such as he knew Sir Robert to be.
It was with no thought of calling his quondam Brighton acquaintance to account that he directed the servant to show him in.
And in he was shown.