“Do you think that can be Mr. Vincent?” she said, pleasantly apprehensive. “It’s not the right day, but one never knows.”
A footman’s figure entered.
“ Mr. Baxter, my lady. … Is your ladyship at home?”
“ Mr. Baxter—”
Mrs. Stapleton rose.
“Let me see him instead, dearest. … You remember … from Stantons.”
“I wonder what he wants?” murmured the hostess. “Yes, do see him, Maud; you can always fetch me if it’s anything.”
Then she was gone. Mrs. Stapleton sank into a chair again; and in a minute Laurie was shaking hands with her.
Mrs. Stapleton was accustomed to deal with young men, and through long habit had learned how to flatter them without appearing to do so. Laurie’s type, however, was less familiar to her. She preferred the kind that grow their hair rather long and wear turndown collars, and have just found out the hopeless banality of all orthodoxy whatever. She even bore with them when they called themselves unmoral. But she remembered Laurie, the silent boy at lunch last week, she had even mentioned him to Lady Laura, and received information about the village girl, more or less correct. She was also aware that he was a Catholic.
She gave him her hand without rising.
“Lady Laura asked me to excuse her absence to you, Mr. Baxter. To be quite truthful, she is at home, but had just gone upstairs for her meditation.”
“Indeed!”