But he was obliged to admit that circumstances looked very much like it.
A week later the following note reached him:--
"22 Great Mornington Street, W.
"Will Mr. Brabazon have the goodness to call here at four o'clock to-morrow."
The writing was that of a lady.
[CHAPTER III.]
CUT ADRIFT.
Burgo Brabazon had many pleasant recollections associated in his mind with his uncle's house in Great Mornington Street. He had nearly always spent his holidays there when a lad, and very jolly times they had generally been. But, on the present occasion, when once the front door was shut behind him, he found himself in an unknown country. Everything was changed. The sober, substantial, thoroughly English-looking furniture, which seemed to match so well with the dingy Georgian mansion, had all been swept away and the art upholsterer, with his latest fads, had had full scope given him to work his own bizarre will.
Burgo was ushered into the back drawing-room--a pleasant, home-like room it had been in the old days, where he and his uncle had played many a game of backgammon; but now it was transmogrified out of all recognition, and a chill came over the young fellow's spirits as he looked around. It had been more like home to him than any other place in the world, and now he knew it no longer.
Presently the door opened and a tall, dark, handsome woman, whose age might be anything between thirty and forty, came slowly forward.