“I’m afraid I’m late, Mrs. Pett,” said his lordship.

“No.  You’re quite punctual.  Lord Wisbeach, here is an old friend of yours, James Crocker.”

There was an almost imperceptible pause.  Then Jimmy stepped forward and held out his hand.

“Hello, Wizzy, old man!”

“H-hello, Jimmy!”

Their eyes met.  In his lordship’s there was an expression of unmistakable relief, mingled with astonishment.  His face, which had turned a sickly white, flushed as the blood poured back into it.  He had the appearance of a man who had had a bad shock and is just getting over it.  Jimmy, eyeing him curiously, was not surprised at his emotion.  What the man’s game might be, he could not say; but of one thing he was sure, which was that this was not Lord Wisbeach, but—­on the contrary—­some one he had never seen before in his life.

“Luncheon is served, madam!” said Mr. Crocker sonorously from the doorway.

CHAPTER XV

A LITTLE BUSINESS CHAT

It was not often that Ann found occasion to rejoice at the presence in her uncle’s house of the six geniuses whom Mrs. Pett had installed therein.  As a rule, she disliked them individually and collectively.  But to-day their company was extraordinarily welcome to her.  They might have their faults, but at least their presence tended to keep the conversation general and prevent it becoming a duologue between Lord Wisbeach and Jimmy on the subject of old times.  She was still feeling weak from the reaction consequent upon the slackening of the tension of her emotions on seeing Lord Wisbeach greet Jimmy as an old acquaintance.  She had never hoped that that barrier would be surmounted.  She had pictured Lord Wisbeach drawing back with a puzzled frown on his face and an astonished “But this is not Jimmy Crocker.”  The strain had left her relieved, but in no mood for conversation, and she replied absently to the remarks of Howard Bemis, the poet, who sat on her left.  She looked round the table.  Willie Partridge was talking to Mrs. Pett about the difference between picric acid and trinitrotoluene, than which a pleasanter topic for the luncheon table could hardly be selected, and the voice of Clarence Renshaw rose above all other competing noises, as he spoke of the functions of the trochaic spondee.  There was nothing outwardly to distinguish this meal from any other which she had shared of late in that house.

The only thing that prevented her relief being unmixed was the fact that she could see Lord Wisbeach casting furtive glances at Jimmy, who was eating with the quiet concentration of one who, after days of boarding-house fare, finds himself in the presence of the masterpieces of a chef.  In the past few days Jimmy had consumed too much hash to worry now about anything like a furtive glance.  He had perceived Lord Wisbeach’s roving eye, and had no doubt that at the conclusion of the meal he would find occasion for a little chat.  Meanwhile, however, his duty was towards his tissues and their restoration.  He helped himself liberally from a dish which his father offered him.