“Now, please!”
“The Rev. George Robertson, Holy Cross Rectory, Manxby Street, my lady.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Can I do anything more for you, my lady?”
“Please send me up a messenger in twenty minutes. Mr. Robertson is in Liverpool, I understand?”
“I believe so, my lady. He is generally here. Holidays and pleasure are not much in his way. The messenger will be up in twenty minutes.”
He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and went softly out, holding himself very erect.
Lady Ingleton sat down by the tea-table. Annette was unpacking in the adjoining bedroom, and Turkish Jane was reposing in an arm-chair near the hearth.
“What would Carey think of me, if he knew?” was her thought, as she poured out the tea.
Sir Carey was at his post in Constantinople. She had left him and come to England to see her mother, who had been very ill, but who was now much better. When she had left Constantinople she had not known she was coming to Liverpool, but she had known that something was intruding upon her happiness, was worrying at her mind. Only when she found herself once more in England did she understand that she could not return to Turkey without making an effort to do a good deed. She had very little hope that her effort would be efficacious, but she knew that she had to make it.