“Oh, yes, I know. Of course. Yes, say I will see him directly. I mean, ask him to come up now.”
“Shall I show him into the library, Miss?”
“No, no; in here; do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss,” replied the butter, with a deprecatory look at St. Cloud, as much as to say, “You see, I can't help it,” in answer to his impatient telegraphic signals. St. Cloud had been very liberal to the Porters' servants.
Mary's confidence had all come back. Relief was at hand. She could trust herself to hold St. Cloud at bay now, as it could not be for more than a few minutes. When she turned to him the nervousness had quite gone out of her manner, and she spoke in her old tone again, as she laid her embroidery aside.
“How lucky that you should be here! Look; I think you must be acquainted,” she said, holding out the card which the butler had given her to St. Cloud.
He took it mechanically, and looked at it, and then crushed it in his hand, and was going to speak. She prevented him.
“I was right, I'm sure. You do know him?”
“I didn't see the name,” he said almost fiercely.
“The name on the card which I gave you just now?—Mr. Grey. He is curate in one of the poor Westminster districts. You must remember him, for he was of your college. He was at Oxford with you. I made his acquaintance at the Commemoration. He will be so glad to meet an old friend.”