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He used this expression somewhat freely, and usually put a "Sir" after it as his father had done before him. His eyes grew rather fierce as he read; then they suddenly softened, and he threw back his shoulders as he had done a thousand times on the threshold of Lady Cantourne's drawing-room.
"Yes; she died nearly twenty-five years ago in Africa." "Africa whereabouts in Africa?" Then suddenly Jocelyn remembered where she had heard Lady Cantourne's name. It had only been mentioned to her once. And this was the aunt with whom Millicent Chyne lived. This cheery little lady knew Jack Meredith and Guy Oscard; and Millicent Chyne's daily life was part of her existence.
This letter reached Sir John Meredith while he was waiting for the announcement that dinner was ready. The announcement arrived immediately afterwards, but he did not go down to dinner until he had read the letter. He fumbled for his newly-purchased eyeglasses, because Lady Cantourne's handwriting was thin and spidery, as became a lady of standing; also the gas was so d d bad.
It was a characteristic movement which he knew, although he had only seen it once or twice before. It indicated that if there was an end to Lady Cantourne's wit, she had almost reached that undesirable bourne. "He has broken off his engagement," she said, looking her companion very straight in the face, "NOW at the eleventh hour. Do you know anything about it?"
When they met a little later in Lady Cantourne's uncompromisingly solid and old-fashioned drawing-room, one may be certain that nothing was lost. "My aunt tells me," began Millicent at once, with that degage treatment of certain topics hitherto held sacred which obtains among young folks to-day, "that you know Loango." "Oh yes I live there." "And you know Mr. Meredith?" "Yes, and Mr. Oscard also."
The man had already rung the bell, and Lady Cantourne's butler was holding the door open. There was something in his attitude vaguely suggestive of expectation. He never took his eyes from Sir John Meredith's face, as if on the alert for an unspoken order.
Moreover, she was clever enough to connect it with her niece's daily increasing love for the man who was soon to be her husband. "Well," she answered, "I should be rather surprised if he gave you nothing." There was a little pause, only broken by the scratching of Lady Cantourne's quill pen. "Auntie!" exclaimed the girl suddenly, "why does he hate me?
Lady Cantourne looked up suddenly. "What was a mistake?" "Not asking his opinion first." She turned to the table where his letter lay, and fingered the paper pensively. "I thought, perhaps, that you had found that the other was a mistake the engagement." "No," he answered. Lady Cantourne's face betrayed nothing. There was no sigh, of relief or disappointment. She merely looked at the clock.
The strong character in Lady Cantourne's book had been Sir John Meredith. Her whole life seemed to have been spent on the outskirts of his watching it. And what she had seen had not been conducive to her own happiness. She knew that the note she had just received meant a great deal to Sir John Meredith.
I want you to remember always that I am your debtor, and if if circumstances should ever seem to indicate that the feeling I have for you is anything but friendly and kind, do me the honour of disbelieving those indications you understand?" "Yes," replied Oscard untruthfully. "Here we are at Lady Cantourne's," continued Sir John, "where, as it happens, I expect to meet Jack.
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