He had other thoughts to distress him—fancies they might be. So long without seeing her, what in the meantime was transpiring? A beautiful woman, with wealth, she could not be going on unnoticed? Sure to be beset with admirers; some of them to become worshippers? There was Lucas, one of the last already; but Swinton did not deign to think of him. Others might make appearance; and among them one who would answer the conditions required by her mother before permitting her to marry.
How could he tell but that a real lord had already trumped up on the tapis; and was at that moment kneeling upon one of the Clarendon carpets, by the selvedge of her silken skirt?
Or if not a lord, might not Maynard be there, unknown to the mother?
Swinton had this last fancy; and it was the least pleasant of all.
It was in his mind every day, as he sat by the window, waiting till the skin of his face should be restored to its natural colour.
And when this at length came to pass, he lost not another day, but proceeded to call upon the Girdwoods.
He went in tip-top style. His spy pay, drawn from such a generous patron, afforded it. No swell upon the streets was dressed in better fashion; for he wore a Poole coat, Melnotte boots, and a hat of Christy’s make.
He did not walk, as on his first call at the Clarendon.
He was transported thither in a cabriolet, with a high-stepping horse between the shafts, and a top-boot tiger on the stand-board.
Mrs Girdwood’s apartments in the aristocratic hotel commanded a window fronting upon Bond Street. He knew that his turn-out would be seen.