“You do appear to me of late to have changed,” cried Egerton suddenly, and with a brightening aspect. “Do tell me that you are happy in the contemplation of your new ties—that I shall live to see you once more restored to your former self.”
“All I can answer, Audley,” said L’Estrange, with a thoughtful brow, “is, that you are right in one thing—I am changed; and I am struggling to gain strength for duty and for honour. Adieu! I shall tell my father that you accede to our wishes.”
CHAPTER VI.
When Harley was gone, Egerton sunk back on his chair, as if in extreme physical or mental exhaustion, all the lines of his countenance relaxed and jaded.
“To go back to that place—there—there—where—Courage, courage—what is another pang?”
He rose with an effort, and folding his arms tightly across his breast, paced slowly to and fro the large, mournful, solitary room. Gradually his countenance assumed its usual cold and austere composure—the secret eye, the guarded lip, the haughty collected front. The man of the world was himself once more.
“Now to gain time, and to baffle the usurer,” murmured Egerton, with that low tone of easy scorn, which bespoke consciousness of superior power and the familiar mastery over hostile natures. He rang the bell: the servant entered.
“Is Baron Levy still waiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Admit him.”