"I'm sure I don't know, mem," said the man impudently, and making an impatient move to shut the door in her face.
He might have done so with impunity, for Laurel, gazing before her with dazed, despairing gaze, was for the moment incapable of speech or action, but at that moment a door opened sharply on the side of the hall, a swish of silk sounded softly, and a clear, sweet voice inquired:
"Who is that asking for papa, Charles?"
Charles opened the door and fell back obsequiously. A lovely blue-eyed girl, richly dressed, came toward Laurel.
"I am Mr. Gordon's daughter. Is your business important?" she inquired with girlish curiosity.
She thought she had never seen anything so sweet and sad as the dark, wistful eyes Laurel flashed upward to meet her gaze.
"Oh, yes, yes, it is very important," she faltered, incoherently. "Perhaps you could—that is, if you would—"
Miss Gordon smiled a little at the tripping speech, but not unkindly.
"Come in. I will do what I can," she said, and led Laurel past the discomfited Charles into a lovely little anteroom, with flowers and books and pictures, that made it a little feminine paradise.