It was pouring with rain the evening Lord Bracondale arrived from Paris
at the family mansion in St. James's Square. He had only wired at the
last moment to his mother, too late to change her plans; she was
unfortunately engaged to take Morella Winmarleigh to the opera, and was
dining early at that lady's house, so she could only see him for a few
moments in her dressing-room before she started.
"My darling, darling boy!" she exclaimed, as he opened the door and
peeped in. "Streatfield, bring that chair for his lordship, and--oh, you
can go for a few minutes."
Then she folded him in her arms, and almost sobbed with joy to see him
again.
"Well, mother," he said, when she had kissed him and murmured over him
as much as she wished. "Here I am, and what a sickening climate! And
where are you off to?"
"I am going to dine with Morella Winmarleigh," said Lady Bracondale,
"early, to go to the opera, and then I shall take her on to the
Brantingham's ball. Won't you join us at either place, Hector? I feel it
so dreadfully, having to rush off like this, your first evening,
darling."
She stood back and looked at him. She must see for herself whether he
was well, and if this riotous life she feared he had been leading lately
had not too greatly told upon him. Her fond eyes detected an air of
weariness: he looked haggard, and not so full of spirits as he usually
was. Alas! if he would only stay in England!
"I am rather tired, mother; I may look in at the opera, but I can't face
a ball. How is Anne, and what is she doing to-night?" he said.
"Anne has a bad cold. We have had such weather--nothing but rain since
Sunday night! She is dining at home and going to bed early. I have just
had a telephone message from her; she is longing to see you, too."
"I think I shall go round and dine with her then," said Hector, "and
join you later."
They talked on for about ten minutes before he left her to dress,
running against Streatfield in the passage. She had known him since his
birth, and beamed with joy at his return.
He chaffed her about growing fat, and went on his way to telephone to
his sister.
"His lordship looks pale, my lady," said the demure woman, as she
fastened Lady Bracondale's bracelet. She, too, disapproved of Paris and
bachelorhood, but she did not love Morella Winmarleigh.