“What!” cried Harry, “do you both know my wife?”
“I believe I have seen her,” said Somerset, a little wildly.
“I think I have met the gentleman,” said Mrs. Desborough sweetly; “but I cannot imagine where it was.”
“Oh no,” cried Somerset fervently; “I have no notion—I cannot conceive—where it could have been. Indeed,” he continued, growing in emphasis, “I think it highly probable that it’s a mistake.”
“And you, Challoner?” asked Harry, “you seemed to recognise her, too.”
“These are both friends of yours, Harry?” said the lady. “Delighted, I am sure. I do not remember to have met Mr. Challoner.”
Challoner was very red in the face, perhaps from having groped after his cigar. “I do not remember to have had the pleasure,” he responded huskily.
“Well, and Mr. Godall?” asked Mrs. Desborough.
“Are you the lady that has an appointment with old ...” began Somerset, and paused, blushing. “Because if so,” he resumed, “I was to announce you at once.”
And the shopman raised a curtain, opened a door, and passed into a small pavilion which had been added to the back of the house. On the roof, the rain resounded musically. The walls were lined with maps and prints and a few works of reference. Upon a table was a large-scale map of Egypt and the Soudan, and another of Tonkin, on which, by the aid of coloured pins, the progress of the different wars was being followed day by day. A light, refreshing odour of the most delicate tobacco hung upon the air; and a fire, not of foul coal, but of clear-flaming resinous billets, chattered upon silver dogs. In this elegant and plain apartment, Mr. Godall sat in a morning muse, placidly gazing at the fire and hearkening to the rain upon the roof.