Brenda's hint evoked a rushing stream of unpleasant, importunate memories. Was it possible that Bert had bridged the five years' silence? That he was still in pursuit—still claiming the promise made in a half-delirious moment?
Her inmost being sickened. It could not be! Not now, on the very threshold of her career—now that she had grown used to happiness and love and England. Disgust was so acute that she grew actually faint.
With a craving for air she sprang from her low seat by the fire, stood up, drew a long breath, flung back her head. What useless panic! She was free: no promise could be said to bind her! Why should she fear?
The shock, the overwhelming spasm of apprehension, passed away so quickly that the Helstons had barely time to wonder what was amiss when she took calmly on her lips the name that haunted her.
"Do you really mean that it is Bert Mestaer?"
Brenda laughed.
"Bert Mestaer! What a notion! You would hardly expect Mr. Burmester to make friends with him! Oh, no; it is someone whom you will really like to see—surely you can guess!"
"Mr. Mayne?"
"Of course!"
The relief, the reaction, were extraordinary. Melicent's head swam. With more demonstration of feeling than was usual to her, she clapped her hands.