The clocks were just chiming the hour of five when Marjorie reached her destination, and a footman in imposing livery showed her at once into the drawing-room.
“Miss Langdon,” he announced, and disappeared behind the silken portières.
At first Marjorie thought she was alone as she advanced into the room, then her eyes, grown accustomed to the softly shaded lights, detected a small, white-haired woman sitting in a large easy chair who rose as she drew nearer, and Marjorie saw that she was a hunchback.
“I am glad you have come,” she said, taking the hand Marjorie held out in both her own, and leading her gently forward. “But, my dear, I thought you were much older,” her eyes traveling over the girl’s beautifully molded features and small, well-set head. The November wind had restored the roses in Marjorie’s cheeks, and she made a charming picture in her well-cut calling costume and becoming hat, both presents from a wealthy friend who had gone into mourning. “It was years ago that your mother wrote me of your birth....”
“Perhaps she told you of my sister who died,” suggested Marjorie. “She was eight years my senior.”
“That must have been it; pull up that chair,” Mrs. Fordyce added, resuming her seat. “My husband and I went to the Orient shortly after her letter, and gradually my correspondence with your mother ceased; but I have many happy memories of our school days. Perhaps you have heard her speak of me—Flora McPherson?”
“Of course, how stupid of me!” exclaimed Marjorie, suddenly enlightened. “Mother often told me of your pranks at boarding-school.”
“I was well and strong in those days.” A slight sigh escaped Mrs. Fordyce. “This curvature of the spine developed from injuries received in a railroad wreck. Your mother would never recognize her old play-fellow now;” a suspicious moisture dimmed her eyes, and she added hastily, “Throw off your wraps, my dear, and make yourself comfortable. I want to have a long talk with you.”
Obediently Marjorie threw back her furs and loosened her coat, as a velvet-footed servant entered with the tea-tray and placed it on the table by Mrs. Fordyce, and deftly arranged the cups and saucers. He left the room to return in a moment carrying a “Curate’s delight” filled with plates of delicious sandwiches and cake.
“How will you have your tea?” asked Mrs. Fordyce, removing the cover from the Dutch silver caddy and placing some of the leaves in the teapot while she waited for the water to boil in the kettle.