“Yes, Sir John. Her ladyship is in the dining-room.”
“Open the door, then.”
Cynthia Beckford ran across the room to meet her husband; but, encumbered with a hand-bag and a travelling-rug, he was not able at once to accept her welcoming embrace.
“Well, Cynthia, my dear! Ridsdale, my dear fellow, how are you? But where’s Jack?”
General Beckford put his hand-bag on a chair by the sideboard, dropped his rug upon the floor, and, coming to the table, took Master Jack’s vacated seat.
“We have sent him to a theatre,” said Cynthia, “with George. I’d no idea that you were coming home, of course.”
“Oh, I see. Gone to the play—with George?”
“We were all three going,” said Mr. Ridsdale, “but Lady Beckford had a headache, so I strongly advised her to stay at home,” and he smiled. “Rather fortunate—or you would have had a double disappointment.”
“It would have been my own fault,” and the General smiled too. “I ought to have sent you a telegram, Cynthia.”
“What has brought you back so unexpectedly?”