She was passing through the booking-office back to the car, when a voice behind her called:
“Hallo, Louise!”
Turning, she found her “uncle,” Charles Benton, who, wearing a light overcoat and grey velour hat, grasped her hand.
“Well, dear,” he exclaimed. “This is fortunate. Mead is here, I suppose?”
“Yes, uncle,” replied the girl, much gratified at meeting him.
“I was about to engage a taxi to take me up to the Manor, but now you can take me there,” said the rather handsome man. “How is Mrs. Bond?” he asked, calling her by her new name.
“Quite well. She’s expecting you to lunch. But she has some impossible people there to-day—the Brailsfords, father, mother, and son. He made his money in motor-cars during the war. They live over at Dorking in a house with forty-nine bedrooms, and only fifteen years ago Mrs. Brailsford used to do the housework herself. Now they’re rolling in money, but can’t keep servants.”
“Ah, my dear, it’s the same everywhere,” said Benton as he entered the car after her. “I’ve just got back from Madrid. It is the same there. The world is changing. Crooks prosper while white men starve. Honesty spells ruin in these days.”
They drove over the railway bridge and up the steep hill out of Guildford seated side by side. Benton had been her “uncle” ever since her childhood days, and a most kind and considerate one he had always proved.
Sometimes when at school she did not see him for periods of a year or more and she had no home to go to for holidays. Her foster-father was abroad. Yet her school fees were paid regularly, her allowance had been ample, and her clothes were always slightly better than those of the other girls. Therefore, though she called him “uncle,” she looked upon Benton as her father and obeyed all his commands.