The soft lights, the cases of books, the cheery fire in the large grate, and, chief of all, the pretty little lady seated at the table engaged in some delicate fancy work—it all took poor Eric’s breath away.
He had sense enough to walk up and shake hands.
“You see the plight I am in—you will forgive my not rising, Mr. Darrell,” she said, referring to her lap full of silk threads and such odds and ends.
“Certainly, Mrs. Leslie, don’t move, I beg. I will find a seat near by,” he returned.
She was looking at him eagerly.
“Mr. Darrell, it is not accident that brings you up here to-night?” she said, and there was a question in her eyes as well as in her voice.
He cannot get out of this.
“I came on a little business.”
“You asked to see Mr. Leslie?”
“In reality I expected to see you.”