Still, I own his next move, when it came, surprised me by what I can only call its virility of conception.
He threw back his head, got up, walked across to the fireplace and, with his hand on the bell-rope, the ghost of a smile—the bravest, most piteous smile I have ever seen—upon his lips, said:
‘I’m right in thinking, am I not, Brownlow, you told me my stepmother arrived just as you came in?’
I answered in the affirmative, not a little perplexed as to what was to follow.
He rang, and when William appeared gave orders her ladyship be informed that Lord Hartover requested to see her.
‘Let Lady Longmoor be told I will be in the white drawing-room, and that I beg she will join me there with as little delay as possible.’
Then to me:
‘You will come too, Brownlow, please. I prefer to have a witness to our conversation.’
So to the white drawing-room we went—a small but lovely room, on the walls of which hung a couple of superb Vandykes, portraits of a former Lord Hartover and his brother, Stephen Esdaile, exquisite if slightly effeminate-looking young gallants of unhappy Charles the First’s court. I had noticed these pictures, with admiration, yesterday when making my round of the house. In Stephen Esdaile I discovered, as I thought, a distinct resemblance to his descendant my ex-pupil, granting the latter long curled love-locks and a yellow silk brocade coat.
Her Magnificence kept us waiting some ten minutes, to arrive at last with a charming effect of haste, still wearing a brown travelling dress, a white lace scarf thrown negligently over her fair head. She was all smiles, all pretty excitement.