And pausing, the woman opened a door, and made way for Henrietta to enter.
At that instant—and strange to say, not before—a dreadful suspicion leapt up in the girl’s brain. What if her brother had followed her, and was there? Or worse still, Captain Clyne? What if she were summoned to be confronted with them and to be taken home in shameful durance, after the fashion of a naughty child that had behaved badly and was in disgrace? The fire sprang to her eyes, her cheeks burnt. It was too late to retreat; but her pretty head went up in the air, and her look as she entered spoke flat rebellion. She swept the room with a glance of flame.
However, there was no one to be burned up: no brother, no slighted, abandoned suitor. In the room, a good-sized, pleasant room, looking on the lake, were only Mrs. Gilson, who stood beside the table, which was laid for breakfast, and a strange man. The man was gazing from the window, but he turned abruptly, disclosing a red waistcoat, as her eye fell on him. She looked from one to the other in great surprise, in growing surprise. What did the man there?
“Where is Mr. Stewart?” she asked, her frigid tone expressing her feelings. “Is he not here?”
Mrs. Gilson seemed about to answer, but the man forestalled her.
“No, miss,” he said, “he is not.”
“Where is he?”
She asked the question with undisguised sharpness.
Mr. Bishop nodded like a man well pleased.
“That is the point, miss,” he answered—“precisely. Where is he?”