At about six o’clock Lady Laura announced her intention of retiring for her evening meditation. Opening out of her bedroom was a small dressing-room that she had fitted up for this purpose with all the broad suggestiveness that marks the Higher Thought: decked with ornaments emblematical of at least three religions, and provided with a faldstool and an exceedingly easy chair.
It was here that she was accustomed to spend an hour before dinner, with closed eyes, emancipating herself from the fetters of sense; and rising to a due appreciation of that nothingness that was all, from which all came and to which it retired.
“I must go, dearest; it is time.”
A ring at the bell below made her pause.
“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.