It was a foggy October evening, and Berkeley Square, from which the
daylight had not yet departed, made a peculiarly dismal impression on
the passers-by, under the mingled illumination of its half-blinded lamps,
and of a sunset which in the country was clear and golden, and here in
west London could only give a lurid coppery tinge to the fog, to the
eastern house-fronts, and to the great plane-trees holding the Square
garden, like giants encamped. Landsowne House, in its lordly seclusion
from the rest of the Square, seemed specially to have gathered the fog to
itself, and was almost lost from sight. Not a ray of light escaped the
closely-shuttered windows. The events of the _mensis mirabilis_ were
rushing on. Bulgaria, Austria, Turkey, had laid down their arms--the
German cry for an armistice had rung through Europe. But still London lay
dark and muffled. Her peril was not yet over.
In the drawing-room of one of the houses on the eastern side, belonging
to a Warwickshire baronet and M.P.--Sir Richard Winton by name--a lady
was standing in front of a thrifty fire, which in view of the coal
restrictions of the moment, she had been very unwilling to light at all.
The restrictions irritated her; so did the inevitable cold of the room;
and most of all was she annoyed and harassed by the thought of a visitor
who might appear at any moment. She was tall, well-made, and plain. One
might have guessed her age at about thirty-five. She had been out in the
earlier afternoon, attending a war meeting on behalf of some charities in
which she was interested, and she had not yet removed a high and stately
hat with two outstanding wings and much jet ornament, which she had worn
at the meeting, to the huge indignation of her neighbours. The black of
her silk dress was lightened by a rope of pearls, and various diamond
trinkets. Her dress fitted her to perfection. Competence and will were
written in her small, shrewd eyes and in the play of a decided mouth.
There was a knock at the door. At Lady Winton's "Come in!" a stout,
elderly maid appeared. She came up to her mistress, and said in a lowered
voice,--
"You'll see Mr. Roger here?"
"Why, I told you so, Nannie!" was the impatient answer. "Is everybody out
of the way?"
The maid explained that all was ready. Jones the butler had been
sent with a note to the City, and the housemaid was sitting with the
kitchen-maid, who was recovering from the flu.
"I told them I'd answer the bell. And I'll keep an eye that no one comes
down before he's gone. There he is!"
For the bell had rung, and the maid hastened to the hall door to answer
it.
A tall man entered--coughing.
"Beastly night, Nannie!" he said, as soon as the cough would let him.
"Don't suit my style. Well?--how are you? Had the flu, like everybody
else?"
"Not yet, Mr. Roger--though it's been going through the house. Shall I
take your coat?"
"You'd better not. I'm too shabby underneath."
"Sir Richard's in the country, Mr. Roger."
"Oh, so her ladyship's alone? Well, that's how I generally find her,
isn't it?"
But Nannie--with her eye on the stairs--was not going to allow him any
lingering in the hall. She led him quickly to the drawing-room, opened
it, and closed it behind him. Then she herself retreated into a small
smoking-den at the farther end of the hall, and sat there, without a
light, with the door open--watching.
Roger Delane instinctively straightened himself to his full height as he
entered his sister's drawing-room. His overcoat, though much worn, was of
an expensive make and cut; he carried the Malacca cane which had been his
companion in the Brookshire roads; and the eyeglass that he adjusted as
he caught sight of his sister completed the general effect of shabby
fashion. His manner was jaunty and defiant.
"Well, Marianne," he said, pausing some yards from her. "You don't seem
particularly glad to see me. Hullo!--has Dick been buying some more
china?"
And before his sister could say anything, he had walked over to a table
covered with various bric-a-brac, where, taking up a fine Nankin vase, he
looked closely at the marks on its base.
Lady Winton flushed with anger.
"I think you had better leave the china alone, Roger. I have only got a
very few minutes. What do you want? Money, I suppose--as usual! And yet I
warned you in my last letter that you would do this kind of thing once
too often, and that we were _not_ going to put up with it!" She struck
the table beside her with her glove.
Delane put down the china and surveyed her.
"The vase is Ming all right--better stuff than Dick generally buys. I
congratulate him. Well, I'm sorry for you, my dear Marianne--but you
_are_ my sister--and you can't help yourself!"
He looked at her, half-smiling, with a quiet bravado which enraged her.
"Don't talk like that, Roger! Tell me directly what it is you want. You
seem to think you can force me to see you at any time, whatever I may be
doing. But--"
"Your last letter was 'a bit thick'--you see--it provoked me," said
Delane calmly. "Of course you can get the police to chuck me out if you
like. You would be quite in your rights. But I imagine the effect on the
aristocratic nerves of Berkeley Square would be amusing. However--"