"And how did you find Grace?" I asked.
Lady Bulstrode shivered slightly.
"Don't, Guy," she said; "it reminds me of our local 'minister'--a
dreadful person. Grace is the daughter of the only man I ever
loved--poor Jack Conway."
"What, the explorer?" I said.
She nodded.
"When he fell down that stupid cliff and killed himself, he left
Grace absolutely unprovided for. It was just like poor Jack--a dear,
delightful man, but quite hopeless about anything to do with money.
I don't suppose he'd ever thought what would happen to Grace if he
died. He took her away from school when she was about sixteen, and
for the last three years before he was killed they'd been wandering
about the world together in that absurd little ship of his, just as
if she'd been a boy."
"Ah!" I said thoughtfully, for I was beginning to "smell land," as
sailors put it.
"You see," went on Lady Bulstrode, "all Jack's income, such as it
was, died with him, and there was nothing left for Grace except the
copyright of his books. Well, goodness knows Grace isn't a girl who
wants luxuries, but, all the same, you can't live on three volumes of
travels, even if they have been praised by the Royal Geographical
Society."
"It sounds rather indigestible," I admitted.
"And so," finished Lady Bulstrode triumphantly, "I persuaded her to
come to me and help me look after Alan's children. Of course, she's
much too good to be a governess all her life, but I mean to marry her
to the first nice rich man who's got the sense to appreciate her.
I've got one in my mind's eye now."
I suddenly conceived a violent dislike for this promisingly placed
gentleman.
"I shouldn't think it would be difficult to fall in love with her," I
remarked casually, "unless one has a rooted objection to girls being
sunburned."
Lady Bulstrode laughed.
"Oh, most of that will wear off--she has just been for her holiday,
staying with some old school friends, and sailing about the coast,
and living in the open air. I told her she'd ruined her complexion,
but I don't think she worries her head about that kind of thing.
She's a born gipsy, just like her father."
The booming sound of a gong from the hall interrupted our
conversation. Glancing at the clock, Lady Bulstrode got up from her
chair.
"Come along, Guy," she said; "that's the dressing-bell. I will take
you up to your room, and then you can tell me if there's anything you
want."
Closely followed by Rufus, who was obviously determined not to lose
sight of me in this strange establishment, I accompanied my hostess
along one side of the gallery, and up a small flight of stairs which
led to a couple of doors.
"Here we are!" she said, opening the one on the left hand. "It's
Alan's old room. I hope you'll be comfortable, Guy."
I glanced round the big, splendidly furnished apartment, and saw that
my things were all unpacked and laid out ready for use. My eyes took
in the thick Turkey carpet, the deep easy chairs, and the luxurious
brass bedstead.