A few moments after Mary’s arrival came Farquhar, lumbering up from the station in a somewhat antiquated taxi.
Isobel welcomed him warmly. “How good of you, Maurice, to come so soon, and of course you are frightfully busy. I am afraid grief makes one very selfish.”
“I don’t think you were ever very selfish, Isobel,” replied Farquhar in his grave, quiet tones. “I am, as you say, frightfully busy, but I have handed over all my briefs to a friend, and I am going to see you through all this sad business. I suppose you have wired to the Head of the Family?”
Isobel’s lip curled a little. “Yes, I have wired to the Head of the Family. I have got his answer. He is coming down to-morrow. My true friends are here to-day, yourself, and Lady Mary Rossett. By the way, how remiss of me not to have introduced you.”
Lady Mary rose, and held out her hand to the rising young barrister.
“But, dear Isobel, we have met before, on that well-remembered evening at the Savoy. You will no doubt recollect, Mr Farquhar, you were dining with a very dark-complexioned gentleman, evidently a foreigner.”
“Of course, I remember perfectly. The man who was my guest is my old friend Andres Moreno, a very capable journalist.”
Lady Mary looked approvingly at the grave young barrister. Her heart was, of course, buried in the grave of the young Guardsman, but she felt a pleasurable thrill in this new acquaintance. There was something in his sedate demeanour that appealed to her practical and well-ordered nature—a nature that was apt occasionally to be disturbed by tempestuous and romantic moods.
“Where are you putting up?” asked Lady Mary casually.
“At the ‘Queen’s,’” answered Farquhar.