“I have been hoping to meet you,” he said, in a strong but gentle voice which had, Miss Cronin thought, almost caressing inflexions.
“Very glad to meet you, indeed!” said the companion.
“Yes. Miss Van Tuyn has told me what you are to her.”
“Forgive me for a minute!” said Miss Van Tuyn. “I must take off my things. They all feel as if they were full of fog. Fanny, entertain Mr. Arabian until I come back. But don’t talk about Bourget. He’s never read Bourget, I’m sure.”
She looked at Fanny Cronin and went out of the room. And in that look old Fanny, slow in the uptake though she undoubtedly was, read a tremendous piece of news.
This must be the Wallace Collection!
That was how her mind put it. This must be the great reason of Beryl’s lingering in London, this total stranger of whom she had never heard till this moment. Her instinct had not deceived her. Beryl had at last fallen in love. And probably Mr. Braybrooke had been aware of it when he had called that afternoon and talked so persistently about the changes and chances of life. In that case Miss Cronin had wronged him. And he had perhaps come to plead the cause of another.
“The weather—it is really terrible, is it not? You are wise to stay in the warm.”
So the conversation began between Miss Cronin and Arabian, and it continued for quite a quarter of an hour. Then Miss Van Tuyn came back in a tea gown, looking lovely with her uncovered hair and her shining, excited eyes, and some twenty minutes later Arabian went away.
When he had gone Miss Van Tuyn said carelessly: