"I am glad that you have come to see me," she said. "Won't you sit down?"He ignored her invitation, and stood looking around him. There was a noticeable change in the little room. There were no flowers, some of the ornaments and the silver trifles from her table were missing. The place seemed to have been swept bare of everything, except the necessary furniture. Then he looked at her. She was perceptibly thinner, and there were black rings under her eyes.
"Where is Mrs. Tresfarwin?" he asked.
"In Cornwall," she answered.
"Why?"
"I could not afford to keep her here any longer.""What are you doing for a living--painting still?"She shook her head a little piteously.
"They can't sell any more of my pictures," she said. "I am trying to get a situation as governess or companion or--anything.""When did you have anything to eat last?" he asked.
"Yesterday," she answered, and he was just in time to catch her. She had fainted.
He laid her upon the sofa, poured some water over her face, and fanned her with a newspaper. His expression of cold indifference remained unmoved. It was there in his face when she opened her eyes.
"Are you well enough to walk?" he asked.
"Quite, thank you," she answered. "I am so sorry!""Put on your hat," he ordered.
She disappeared for a few minutes, and returned dressed for the street. He drove her to a restaurant and ordered some dinner. He made her drink some wine, and while they waited he buried himself in a newspaper. They ate their meal almost in silence. Afterwards, Wingrave asked her a question.
"Where is Aynesworth?"
"Looking for work, I think," she answered.
"Why did you not stay down in Cornwall?"
"Miss Pengarth was away--and I preferred to return to London," she told him quietly.
"When are you going to marry Aynesworth?" he asked.
She looked down into her glass and was silent. He leaned a little towards her.
"Perhaps," he remarked quietly, "you are already married?"Still she was silent. He saw the tears forced back from her eyes. He heard the sob break in her throat. Yet he said nothing. He only waited. At last she spoke.
"Nothing is settled yet," she said, still without looking at him.
"I see no reason," he said calmly, "why, until that time, you should refuse to accept your allowance from Mr. Pengarth.""I cannot take any more of your money," she answered. "It was a mistake from the first, but I was foolish. I did not understand."His lip curled with scorn.
"You are one of those," he said, "who, as a child, were wise, but as a young woman with a little knowledge, become--a prig. What harm is my money likely to do you? I may be the Devil himself, but my gold is not tainted. For the rest, granted that I am at war with the world, I do not number children amongst my enemies."She raised her eyes then, and looked him in the face.
"I am not afraid of you," she declared. "It is not that; but I have been dependent long enough. I will keep myself--or starve."He shrugged his shoulders and paid the bill.
"My man," he said, "will take you wherever you like. I have a call to make close here."They stood upon the pavement. She held out her hand a little timidly. Her eyes were soft and wistful.
"Goodbye, guardian," she said. "Thank you very much for my lunch.""Ah!" he said gravely, "if you would let me always call myself that!"She got into the car without a word. Wingrave walked straight back to his own house. Several people were waiting in the entrance hall, and the visitors' book was open upon the porter's desk. He walked through, looking neither to the right nor the left, crossed the great library, with its curved roof, its floor of cedar wood, and its wonderful stained-glass windows, and entered a smaller room beyond--his absolute and impenetrable sanctum. He rang the bell for his servant.
"Morrison," he said, "if you allow me to be disturbed by any living person, on any pretense whatever, until I ring, you lose your place. Do you understand?""Perfectly, sir."
Wingrave locked the door. The next hour belonged to himself alone . . . .
When at last he rang the bell, he gave Morrison a note.
"This is to be delivered at once," he said.
The man bowed and withdrew. Wingrave, with his hands behind him, strolled out into the library. In a remote corner, a small spectacled person was busy writing at a table. Wingrave crossed the room and stood before him.
"Are you my librarian?" he asked.
The man rose at once.
"Certainly, sir," he answered. "My name is Woodall. You may have forgotten it.
I am at work now upon a new catalogue."
Wingrave nodded.
"I have a quarto Shakespeare, I think," he said, "that I marked at Sotheby's, also a manu Thomas a Kempis, and a first edition of Herrick. I should like to see them.""By all means," the man answered, hurrying to the shelves. "You have, also, a wonderful rare collection of manus, purchased from the Abbey St.
Jouvain, and a unique Horace. If you will permit me."Wingrave spent half an hour examining his treasures, leaving his attendant astonished.
"A millionaire who understands!" he exclaimed softly as he resumed his seat.
"Miraculous!"
Wingrave passed into the hall, and summoned his major domo.
"Show me the ballroom," he ordered, "and the winter garden."The little man in quiet black clothes--Wingrave abhorred liveries--led him respectfully through rooms probably unequaled for magnificence in England. He spoke of the exquisite work of French and Italian artists; with a gesture almost of reverence he pointed out the carving in the wonderful white ballroom.
Wingrave listened and watched with immovable face. Just as they had completed their tour, Morrison approached.
"Mr. Lumley and Lady Ruth Barrington are in the library, sir," he announced.
Wingrave nodded.
"I am coming at once," he said.
