Aynesworth shook his head.
"She is not a child any longer, but a very beautiful young woman," he
said. "I met her again quite by accident. She is up in London,
studying art at the studio of an old friend of mine who has a class of
girls. I called to see him the other afternoon, and recognized her."
"Your acquaintance," Wingrave remarked, "has progressed rapidly if she
accepts your escort--to the gallery of the Opera!"
"It was scarcely like that," Aynesworth explained. "I met her and Mrs.
Tresfarwin on the way there, and asked to be allowed to accompany
them. Mrs. Tresfarwin was once your housekeeper, I think, at
Tredowen."
"And did you solve the mystery of this relation of her father who
turned up so opportunely?" Wingrave asked.
Aynesworth shook his head.
"She told me nothing about him," he answered.
Wingrave passed on to his own room. His breakfast was on the table
awaiting him, and a little pile of letters and newspapers stood by his
plate. His servant, his head groom, and his chauffeur were there to
receive their orders for the morning. About him were all the evidences
of his well-ordered life. He sent both the men away and locked the
door. It was half an hour before he touched either his breakfast or
his letters . . . .
He lunched at Westchester House in obedience to a somewhat imperative
summons. There were other guests there, whom, however, he outstayed.
As soon as they were alone, his hostess touched him on the arm and led
him to her own room.
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