“Another week, nurse,” he would say. “Perhaps I will be able to do without you then. We shall see.”
And so indispensable did his lordship find her that not until the last day of January did she pack her small belongings ready to be carried back to the convent.
It was a warm, bright evening, one of those soft, sunny winter days which one so often experiences in sheltered Torquay, when Jean, having sent her things down by Davis, the under chauffeur, put on her neat little velvet hat and her black, tailor-made coat, and carrying her business-like nursing-bag, went into the huge drawing-room, where she had learnt from Jenner the Earl was reading.
The big, luxurious, heavily-gilded apartment was empty, but the long, French windows were open upon the stone terrace, and upon one of the white iron garden chairs the Earl, a smart, neatly-dressed figure in black morning coat, widely braided in the French manner—a fashion he usually affected—sat reading.
Jean walked to the window, bag in hand, and paused for a few seconds, looking at him in silence.
Then, as their eyes met and he rose quickly to his feet, she advanced with outstretched hand to wish him farewell.