But at that moment Hertha saw approaching her a great friend of hers—a man to whom she was bound by long-standing ties of affection and gratitude, but whom, owing to his and her own busy lives, she met less frequently than she would have wished. She turned to Winifred—
“I must speak to Mr—to the man who had just come in,” she said, half-rising from her seat.
“Some other time, perhaps, Miss Maryon—”
“How tiresome!” said Winifred. “Just when we were getting into a really nice talk. Cannot you just say a word or two to him, and come back again, Miss Norreys?”
But Hertha was on her feet by this time.
“We must arrange some other day. I will write to you,” she said, hurriedly, eager not to miss the pleasant chance before her.
And Winifred remained alone on the sofa. She was satisfied on the whole; she had made a beginning. Miss Norreys was appreciative, and she felt sure of her ground with her.
“If such a thing could be as my living with her!” thought Winifred. “That would be ideal. Whatever work I take up, I could manage to fit it in to such an arrangement. And if I decide on writing as my principal occupation, of course I shall be very independent—pen and ink can do their work anywhere.”
She watched Miss Norreys and the tall stranger—a man of forty or thereabouts—slightly grey, and with a somewhat peculiar stoop.
“How good she is!” thought Winifred; “I can see he is boring her. I wonder what they are talking about.”