We passed, as it seemed, through endless streets, until we reached the then lonely King’s Road; drove along it, turned to the left down Church Lane, and drew up at a door in a high wall apparently enclosing a garden. I got out of the coach and rang the bell. A moment after I heard a woman’s quick tripping footsteps within. The door was flung wide open, disclosing a covered way leading to a pretty hall, gay with coloured curtains and carpets, and a voice cried:
‘Ah! c’est toi enfin, mon bien aimé. A-t-il perdu le clef encore une fois, le petit étourdi?’
The speaker and I recoiled apart. For, immediately before me, under the passage lamp, was Fédore.
Superbly lovely, certainly, if art can create loveliness, with delicately tinted cheeks and whitened skin; her raven hair arranged, according to the prevailing mode, so as to add as much as possible to her height. Dressed, or rather undressed—for women then wore only little above the waist—in richest orange and crimson; her bare arms and bosom sparkling with jewels—none brighter, though, than these bold and brilliant eyes—there she stood, more like her namesake Empress Theodora than ever, and flashed lightnings into my face—disappointment, rage, scorn, but no trace of fear.
‘And what, pray, does Monsieur Brownlow wish at such an hour of the night?’
‘Nothing, Mademoiselle,’ I answered gravely and humbly. ‘I came to see Lord Hartover, and he is not, I perceive, at home.’
Was she going to shut the door on me? Nothing less. Whether from sheer shamelessness, or whether—as I have often fancied since—she read my errand in my face, she composed herself in an instant, becoming amiable and gracious.
‘Could not Monsieur come in and wait? Would he not stay and sup with us?’
I bowed courteously. She was so superb, so daringly mistress of herself, I could do no less; and said I should be shocked at interrupting such a tête-à-tête. I apologised for having brought her to the door on so cold a night; and, raising my hat, departed, having, at least, taken care to tell her nothing.