“On the last occasion we met, on the night of the ball at Blatherwycke, you uttered some rather bitter personalities, Stuart,” she commenced, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin upon her palms as she crouched by the fire. The evening was chilly, and when I had shaken her hand I noticed how icy it seemed. “I’ve been thinking over your words,” she added after a short pause.
“Well, I only said what I thought,” I answered. “I’m often accused of abruptness.”
“Yes, but it was not to scold you that I asked you to call,” she went on. “The fact is I’m in a terrible difficulty,” and she hesitated as if half fearing to admit the truth.
“Of what nature?” I asked.
“Fyneshade has left me!” she answered suddenly, in a strange half-whisper.
“Left you!” I cried. “Why, whatever do you mean?”
“I mean that I have acted foolishly, and that he has left this house with a declaration upon his lips that while I inhabit it he will never again cross its threshold. To-day, I have had a letter from his solicitors suggesting that I should have an interview with them for the purpose of coming to some financial arrangement. He offers me Fyneshade Hall for the remainder of my life.”
“Where is he?”
“In Paris, I believe.”
“And the cause of this disagreement? Tell me.”