"
The man returned presently, and ushered him into a small sitting room.
"Her ladyship will be quite half an hour before she can see you, sir,"
he said.
"I will wait," Aynesworth answered, taking up a paper.
The time passed slowly. At last, the door was opened. A woman, in a
plain but exquisitely fitting black gown, entered. From Lovell's
description, Aynesworth recognized her at once, and yet, for a moment,
he hesitated to believe that this was the woman whom he had come to
see. The years had indeed left her untouched. Her figure was slight,
almost girlish; her complexion as smooth, and her coloring, faint
though it was, as delicate and natural as a child's. Her eyes were
unusually large, and the lashes which shielded them heavy. It was when
she looked at him that Aynesworth began to understand.
She carried his card in her hand, and glanced at it as he bowed.
"You are the Daily Scribbler," she said. "You want me to tell you
about my bazaar, I suppose."
"I am attached to the Daily Scribbler, Lady Ruth Barrington,"
Aynesworth answered; "but my business this afternoon has nothing to do
with the paper. I have called with a message from--an old friend of
yours."
She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. The graciousness of her
manner was perceptibly abated.
"Indeed! I scarcely understand you, Mr.--Aynesworth."
"My message," Aynesworth said, "is from Sir Wingrave Seton."
The look of enquiry, half impatient, half interrogative, faded slowly
from her face.
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