“At what time did this lady call, Collins?”

“Not very long after you left the house, sir.  She said she would call again.  She is at the White Horse.”

“She shall not have the trouble of coming here,” I said, drawing my chair to the table.  “Send James up to the White Horse with my compliments, and say that I will wait upon the lady in about an hour’s time.”

Collins darted away to despatch the message, and returning presently with the pale ale, uncorked it dexterously, and stood at the side-board, serenely indifferent.

“And what kind of person was this—­this Mademoiselle de Sainte Aulaire, Collins?” I asked, leisurely bisecting a partridge.

“Can’t say, sir, indeed.  Lady kept her veil down.”

“Humph!  Tall or short, Collins?”

“Rather tall, sir.”

“Young?”

“Haven’t an idea, sir.  Voice very pleasant, though.”

A pleasant voice has always a certain attraction for me.  Hortense’s voice was exquisite—­rich and low, and somewhat deeper than the voices of most women.

I took up the card again.  Mademoiselle de Sainte Aulaire!  Where had I heard that name?

“She said nothing of the nature of her business, I suppose, Collins?”

“Nothing at all, sir.  Dear me, sir, I beg pardon for not mentioning it before; but there’s been a messenger over from the White Horse, since the lady left, to know if you were yet home.”

“Then she is in haste?”

“Very uncommon haste, I should say, sir,” replied Collins, deliberately.

I pushed back the untasted dish, and rose directly.

“You should have told me this before,” I said, hastily.

“But—­but surely, sir, you will dine—­”

“I will wait for nothing,” I interrupted.  “I’ll go at once.  Had I known the lady’s business was urgent, I would not have delayed a moment.”

Collins cast a mournful glance at the table, and sighed respect fully. 
Before he had recovered from his amazement, I was half way to the inn.

The White Horse was now the leading hostelry of Saxonholme.  The old Red Lion was no more.  Its former host and hostess were dead; a brewery occupied its site; and the White Horse was kept by a portly Boniface, who had been head-waiter under the extinct dynasty.  But there had been many changes in Saxonholme since my boyish days, and this was one of the least among them.

I was shown into the best sitting-room, preceded by a smart waiter in a white neckcloth.  At a glance I took in all the bearings of the scene—­the table with its untasted dessert; the shaded lamp; the closed curtains of red damask; the thoughtful figure in the easy chair.  Although the weather was yet warm, a fire blazed in the grate; but the windows were open behind the crimson curtains, and the evening air stole gently in.  It was like stepping into a picture by Gerard Dow, so closed, so glowing, so rich in color.