But the lawyer’s eye was habitually watchful, and the lawyer saw him.

Mastering in a moment his first natural astonishment at the liberty taken with him, Mr. Delamayn drew the inevitable conclusion that there was something wrong, and that there was an attempt (not to be permitted for a moment) to mix him up in it.  He advanced, resolute to contradict his client, to his client’s own face.

The voluble Lady Jane interrupted him before he could open his lips.

“Might I ask one question?  Is the aspect south?  Of course it is!  I ought to see by the sun that the aspect is south.  These and the other two are, I suppose, the only rooms on the ground-floor?  And is it quiet?  Of course it’s quiet!  A charming house.  Far more likely to suit my friend than any I have seen yet.  Will you give me the refusal of it till to-morrow?” There she stopped for breath, and gave Mr. Delamayn his first opportunity of speaking to her.

“I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” he began.  “I really can’t—­”

Mr. Vanborough—­passing close behind him and whispering as he passed—­stopped the lawyer before he could say a word more.

“For God’s sake, don’t contradict me!  My wife is coming this way!”

At the same moment (still supposing that Mr. Delamayn was the master of the house) Lady Jane returned to the charge.

“You appear to feel some hesitation,” she said.  “Do you want a reference?” She smiled satirically, and summoned her friend to her aid.  “Mr. Vanborough!”

Mr. Vanborough, stealing step by step nearer to the window—­intent, come what might of it, on keeping his wife out of the room—­neither heeded nor heard her.  Lady Jane followed him, and tapped him briskly on the shoulder with her parasol.

At that moment Mrs. Vanborough appeared on the garden side of the window.

“Am I in the way?” she asked, addressing her husband, after one steady look at Lady Jane.  “This lady appears to be an old friend of yours.”  There was a tone of sarcasm in that allusion to the parasol, which might develop into a tone of jealousy at a moment’s notice.

Lady Jane was not in the least disconcerted.  She had her double privilege of familiarity with the men whom she liked—­her privilege as a woman of high rank, and her privilege as a young widow.  She bowed to Mrs. Vanborough, with all the highly-finished politeness of the order to which she belonged.

“The lady of the house, I presume?” she said, with a gracious smile.

Mrs. Vanborough returned the bow coldly—­entered the room first—­and then answered, “Yes.”

Lady Jane turned to Mr. Vanborough.

“Present me!” she said, submitting resignedly to the formalities of the middle classes.

Mr. Vanborough obeyed, without looking at his wife, and without mentioning his wife’s name.

“Lady Jane Parnell,” he said, passing over the introduction as rapidly as possible.  “Let me see you to your carriage,” he added, offering his arm.  “I will take care that you have the refusal of the house.  You may trust it all to me.”