The words were a requiem.
The first person whom he met in this great house, in the kingdom of which he was to be king-consort, was a butler of incredible stateliness. This was none other than Steve’s friend Keggs. But round the outlying portions of this official he had perceived, as the door opened, a section of a woman in a brown dress.
The butler moving to one side, he found himself confronting Mrs. Lora Delane Porter.
If other things in Kirk’s world had changed, time had wrought in vain upon the great authoress. She looked as masterful, as unyielding, and as efficient as she had looked at the time of his departure. She took his hand without emotion and inspected him keenly.
“You are thinner,” she remarked.
“I said that, Aunt Lora,” said Ruth. “Poor boy, he’s a skeleton.”
“You are not so robust.”
“I have been ill.”
Ruth interposed.
“He’s had fever, Aunt Lora, and you are not to tease him.”