The sound of the approaching motor had brought a child of about twelve running out on to the terrace. She waited at the head of the stone steps, colouring up shyly as she met the stranger's gaze.
"This is my little girl, Elfrida," said Lady Betty. "Elfrida, this is your Uncle John."
The child held her hand out frankly to her grim relative, and there was no suggestion of shrinking in her manner.
"I came out to be the first to welcome you home to Redhurst, Uncle John," she said a trifle primly. Then, becoming all child again, she turned to her mother. "Oh, mummy, I thought you'd never come. I'll go and tell them you're here. We're all having tea in the hall."
As he watched the fair-haired child disappear, Calamity thought, with something of a pang, that she might have been his own. But this feeling lasted only a moment, and he remembered once more that she was the child of the man who had ruined him.
"Welcome home," said Lady Betty softly.
"Thank you," he answered without enthusiasm.
"It has been home to me, and I have loved it for fourteen years," she said, and then continued archly, obviously inviting and expecting a denial. "And now you've come to turn me out."
Calamity fixed his disconcerting gaze upon her face.
"There's no hurry for a week or so," he said.