"The train was very late," she explained in a voice of apology.
"They always are," said Lord Buntingford. "Never mind. You are in quite good time. Miss Pitstone hasn't arrived. Norris, take Mrs. Friend's luggage upstairs."
An ancient man-servant appeared. The small and delicately built lady on the step looked at him appealingly.
"I am afraid there is a box besides," she said, like one confessing a crime. "Not a big one—" she added hurriedly. "We had to leave it at the station. The groom left word for it to be brought later."
"Of course. The car will bring it," said Lord Buntingford. "Only one box and those bags?" he asked, smiling. "Why, that's most moderate. Please come in."
And he led the way to the drawing-room. Reassured by his kind voice and manner, Mrs. Friend tripped after him. "What a charming man!" she thought.
It was a common generalization about Lord Buntingford. Mrs. Friend had still—like others—to discover that it did not take one very far.
In the drawing-room, which was hung with French engravings mostly after
Watteau, and boasted a faded Aubusson carpet, a tea-table was set out.
Lord Buntingford, having pushed forward a seat for his guest, went
towards the tea-table, and then thought better of it.
"Perhaps you'll pour out tea—" he said pleasantly. "It'll be your function, I think—and I always forget something."
Mrs. Friend took her seat obediently in front of the tea-table and the Georgian silver upon it, which had a look of age and frailty as though generations of butlers had rubbed it to the bone, and did her best not to show the nervousness she felt. She was very anxious to please her new employer.