“Yes.”
She got up again and went to the writing-table. There seemed to her to be something deadly in this interview. She could not feel humanity in it. Sir Seymour was terribly impersonal. There was something almost machine like about him. She did not know him well, but how different he had been to her in Berkeley Square! There he had been a charming old courtier. He had shown a sort of gallant admiration of her. He had beamed kindly upon her youth and her daring. Now he showed nothing.
But—Adela had told him!
She wrote down Dick Garstin’s address in Glebe Place, and was about to come away from the writing-table when Sir Seymour said:
“Could you also kindly give me your card with a line of introduction to Mr. Garstin? I don’t know him.”
“Oh, I will of course!”
She found one of her cards and hesitated.
“What shall I put?” she asked.
“You might put ‘To introduce,’ and then my name.”
“Yes.”