His thoughts went dismally off in the new direction.  As he turned away from the window, a long Venetian mirror close by reflected the image of a tall man in naval uniform, with a head and face that were striking rather than handsome—­black curly hair just dusted with grey, a slight chronic frown, remarkable blue eyes and a short silky beard.  His legs were slender in proportion to the breadth of his shoulders, and inadequate in relation to the dignity of the head.  One of them also was slightly—­very slightly—­lame.

He wandered restlessly round the room again, stopping every now and then with his hands in his pockets, to look at the books on the shelves.  Generally, he did not take in what he was looking at, but in a moment less absent-minded than others, he happened to notice the name of a stately octavo volume just opposite his eyes—­

“Davison, on Prophecy.”

“Damn Davison!”—­he said to himself, with sudden temper.  The outburst seemed to clear his mind.  He went to the bell and rang it.  A thin woman in a black dress appeared, a woman with a depressed and deprecating expression which was often annoying to Lord Buntingford.  It represented somehow an appeal to the sentiment of the spectator for which there was really no sufficient ground.  Mrs. Mawson was not a widow, in spite of the Mrs. She was a well-paid and perfectly healthy person; and there was no reason, in Lord Buntingford’s view, why she should not enjoy life.  All the same, she was very efficient and made him comfortable.  He would have raised her wages to preposterous heights to keep her.

“Is everything ready for the two ladies, Mrs. Mawson?”

“Everything, my Lord.  We are expecting the pony-cart directly.”

“And the car has been ordered for Miss Pitstone?”

“Oh, yes, my Lord, long ago.”

“Gracious!  Isn’t that the cart!”

There was certainly a sound of wheels outside.  Lord Buntingford hurried to a window which commanded the drive.

“That’s her!  I must go and meet her.”

He went into the hall, reaching the front door just as the pony-cart drew up with a lady in black sitting beside the driver.  Mrs. Mawson looked after him.  She wondered why his lordship was in such a flurry.  “It’s this living alone.  He isn’t used to have women about.  And it’s a pity he didn’t stay on as he was.”

Meanwhile the lady in the pony-cart, as she alighted, saw a tall man, of somewhat remarkable appearance, standing on the steps of the porch.  Her expectations had been modest; and that she would be welcomed by her employer in person on the doorstep of Beechmark had not been among them.  Her face flushed, and a pair of timid eyes met those of Lord Buntingford as they shook hands.

“The train was very late,” she explained in a voice of apology.

“They always are,” said Lord Buntingford.  “Never mind.  You are in quite good time.  Miss Pitstone hasn’t arrived.  Norris, take Mrs. Friend’s luggage upstairs.”