A table was spread in the center of the room, glittering with cut glass and silver, and heaped with a profusion of viands, fruits, and wines of a quality to tempt the daintiest epicurean taste.
Four young men sat around this table, but for the moment suspending their operations upon the good things set before them, while they listened to a bacchanalian song from one of their number.
A knock at this moment interrupted the singer, and Mr. Sumner, arising, went to answer the summons.
A servant handed him a card and waited for orders, a look of curious interest upon his face.
A scowl of anger clouded George Sumner’s face as he read the name which Marion had written with trembling fingers upon its smooth surface.
He passed out into the corridor, shutting the door after him.
“Where is the lady?” he asked of the servant, in a low tone.
“In the anteroom at the end of the passage,” he answered, with a peculiar grin.
It was not considered just the thing for a young lady to call, unattended, upon a gentleman at his lodgings, particularly at so late an hour of the night.
“Very well; tell her I will be there in a few minutes,” George Sumner said, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable.