Three years had passed away since Lettice Bertrand had bidden farewell to her Northern home and accompanied Miss Carr to London, but there was little sign of change in the big drawing-room at Kensington, or in the mistress herself, as she sat reading a magazine by the window one sunny June afternoon. When the purse is well lined it is easy to prevent signs of age so far as furniture and decorations are concerned, while the lapse of three years makes little difference in the appearance of a lady who has long passed middle age. Miss Carr looked very contented and comfortable as she lay back against the cushions of her easy chair, so comfortable that she groaned with annoyance as the servant came forward to announce a visitor, and the frown did not diminish when she heard the name.
“Oh, ask Mr Newcome to come up, Baker! I will see him here.” The man disappeared, and she threw down the magazine with an exclamation of disgust. “That stolid young man! Now I shall have to listen to improving anecdotes for the next half-hour. Why in the world need he inflict himself upon me?”
The next moment the door opened and the “‘stolid’ young man” stood before her. So far as appearance went, however, the description was misleading, for Arthur Newcome was tall and handsome, with yellow hair, a good moustache, and strong, well set up figure. He came forward and shook hands with Miss Carr in a quick, nervous fashion, which was so unlike his usual stolid demeanour, that the good lady stared at him in amazement.
“He is actually animated! I always said that it would take a convulsion of nature to rouse him from his deadly propriety, but upon my word he looks excited. What can have happened?”
The laws of propriety do not always permit us to ask the questions nearest our hearts, however, and Miss Carr was obliged to content herself with commonplaces.
“It is a beautiful day. I suppose Madge got home safely last night? She isn’t too tired after the picnic, I hope!”
“A little fatigued, I believe, but no doubt she will have recovered before evening. She is apt to get excited on these occasions and to exert herself unduly.”
“Nobody can say the same of you, more’s the pity,” was Miss Carr’s mental comment. “Madge rows very well, and the exercise will do her no harm,” she said shortly, and relapsed into determined silence. “I suppose he has something to say, some message for Lettice most likely; better let him say it and take himself off as soon as possible,” was her hospitable reflection; but Mr Newcome sat twirling his hat and studying the pattern of the carpet in embarrassed silence.
Three times over did he clear his throat and open his lips to speak, before he got the length of words.
“Miss Carr, I—er, I feel that I am—er—I am deeply sensible of my own unworthiness, and can only rely on your generosity, and assure you of my deep and sincere—”