Hammond never wholly forgot the picture of the sitting-room and its occupant, as he entered with Carlyon. The room was a large one, exquisitely furnished, and flooded with a warm, mellow light. A small but cheerful-looking wood fire burned upon the tiled hearth, the atmosphere of the room fragrant with a soft, subtle odour, as though the burning wood were scented. From a couch, as the two men entered, a girl rose briskly, and faced them. She made a picture which Tom never forgot. The warm, mellow light that filled the room seemed to clothe her as she stood to meet them. “America” was stamped upon her and her dress, upon the arrangement of her hair, upon the very droop of her figure. She was tall, fair, with that exquisite colouring and smoothness of complexion that is the product of an unartificial, hygienic life.
Her face could not be pronounced wholly beautiful, but it was a face that was full of life and charm, her eyes being especially arrestive.
“Awfully glad you came up, Madge!” cried Carlyon. “I’ve run my quarry down, and this is my own particular, Tom Hammond.”
He made a couple of mockingly-funny elaborate bows, saying: “Miss Madge Finisterre, of Duchess County, New York. Mr. Tom Hammond, of—oh, shades of Cosmopolitanism!—of everywhere, of London just at present.”—Tom bowed to the girl.—She returned his salute, and then held forth her hand in a frank, pleasant way, as she laughingly said, “I have heard so much of Tom Hammond during the last few days, that I guess you seem like an old acquaintance.”
Tom shook hands with the maiden, and for a moment or two they chatted as freely and merrily as though they were old acquaintances.
The voice of Carlyon broke into their chat, asking: “Where’s Nunkums, Madge?”
Before the girl could reply, the door opened and Sir Archibald entered the room.
One glance into his face would have been sufficient to have told Tom the type of man he had to deal with, even if he had not seen him before. A warm-hearted, unconventional, impulsive man, a perfect gentleman in appearance, but a merry, hail-fellow-well-met man in his dealings with his fellows.
With a bit of mock drama in the gesture, Madge Finisterre flourished her hand towards the newcomer, crying,