“You have been amusing yourself?”

“Indifferently.  I dined the other night with Dartrey, to-night at the Sheridan Club.  The most exciting thing in the twenty-four hours has been my nightly pilgrimage round here.”

“How idiotic!” she laughed.  “Supposing you had not happened to meet me?  You could scarcely have rung my bell at this hour of the night.”

“I should have been content to have seen the lights and to have known that you had arrived.”

“You dear man!” she exclaimed, with a sudden smile, a smile of entire and sweet friendliness.  “I like the thought of your doing that.  It is something to know that one is welcome, when one breaks away from the routine of one’s life, as I have.”

“Tell me why you have done it?” he asked.

She looked back into the fire.

“Everything was going a little wrong,” she explained.  “One of my farmers was troublesome, and the snow has stopped work and hunting.  We lost thirty of our best ewes last week.  I found I was getting out of temper with everybody and everything, so I suddenly remembered that I had an empty house here and came up.”

“To the city of adventures,” he murmured.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“London has never seemed like that to me.  I find it generally a very ugly and a very sordid place, where I am hedged in with relatives, generally wanting me to do the thing I loathe.—­You have really no news for me, then?”

“None, except that I am glad to see you.”

“When will you come and have a long talk?”

“Will you dine with me to-morrow night?” he begged eagerly.  “In the afternoon I have committee meetings.  Thursday afternoon you could come down to the House, if you cared to.”

“Of course I should, but hadn’t you better dine here?” she suggested.  “I can ask Alice and another man.”

“I want to see you alone,” he insisted, “for the first time, at any rate.”

“Then will you take me to that little place you told me of in Soho?” she suggested.  “I don’t want a whole crowd to know that I am in town just yet.  Don’t think that it sounds vain, but people have such a habit of almost carrying one off one’s feet.  I want to prowl about London and do ordinary things.  One or two theatres, perhaps, but no dinner parties.  I shan’t stay long, I don’t suppose.  As soon as I hear from Mr. Segerson that the snow has gone and that terrible north wind has died away, I know I shall be wanting to get back.”

“You are very conscientious about your work there,” he complained.  “Don’t you ever realise that you may have an even more important mission here?”

For a single moment she seemed troubled.  Her manner, when she spoke, had lost something of its calm graciousness.

“Really?” she said.  “Well, you must tell me all about it to-morrow night.  I shall wear a hat and you must not order the dinner beforehand.  I don’t mind your ordering the table, because I like a corner, but we must sail into the place just like any other two wanderers.  It is agreed?”