She gave a stifled yawn and drew a heavy breath, as one does when encountering some obstacle that must be overcome.
“I wonder whether he will come?” she exclaimed, aloud.
As she uttered these words the door opened, and Nanette, her discreet French maid, entered.
“M’sieur Trethowen,” she announced.
He followed quickly on the girl’s heels, with a fond, glad smile.
“I must really apologise, my dear Valérie. Have I kept you waiting?” he cried breathlessly, at the same time bending and kissing her lightly.
She gave her shapely shoulders a slight shrug, but watched him with contemplative eyes as he rushed on.
“I thought I should be unable to take you out to-day, as I was detained in the City upon business. However, I’ve brought the dog-cart round. The drive will do you good, for the weather is superb.”
“Indeed,” she said languidly. Putting out a lazy, bejewelled hand, she drew back the curtain that hid the window, and gazed out upon the bright afternoon. “Yes, it is lovely,” she assented. “But you must excuse me to-day, Hugh. I am not feeling well.”
“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked in alarm, noticing for the first time that there was a restless, haggard expression about her eyes.