“Is Mr. Echlin in, Martin?” he inquired of the butler, who was putting a finishing touch to his table.
“Yes, sir, dinner at six sharp. The ladies are dressing.”
“Oh, indeed; they have come then?”
“Yes, sir, we druv to meet ’em at four o’clock; the train was five minutes late.”
“Hullo! Mark, only just in,” called Mr. Echlin over the banisters. “Make haste, lad, we’re as hungry as hunters.” And Mark ran up three stairs at a time and plunged into the work of the toilette, too busy to wonder who the ladies might be.
The clock struck six as he left his room. As he ran downstairs the unwonted sound of music struck his ear; someone was playing a Lied ohne Worte, one that Eveline often played in the twilight at home. Mark was glad that one of the ladies played, and played softly, but Martin’s inexorable gong began to boom, and he must go in.
Miles Echlin had never used the drawing-room, and when Mark opened the door, and the great chandeliers were reflected from mirror to mirror, he started back dazzled. Two ladies rose at his entrance and came towards him; both called him by his name. What did it mean? Were they in very truth his own mother and sister, the ladies dearest in the world to his loyal heart?
The wonder of it almost took away his breath, and he gave a great gasp as he uttered their names.
“Mother! Eveline!”
“Forgive me, Mark,” said Mr. Echlin, taking his hand, “it was selfish of me to take you so by surprise, I ought to have told you.”