love of his had arisen from the sweetness of those meetings in London.  But all these ideas had been dissipated by the great misfortune of the death of Lady Mary’s mother.  From all this he was driven to acknowledge to himself that his silence in Italy had been wrong, that he had been weak in allowing himself to be guided by the counsel of the Duchess, and that he had already armed the Duke with one strong argument against him.

He did not doubt but that Mrs Finn would be opposed to him.  Of course he could not doubt but that all the world would now be opposed to him,—­except the girl herself.  He would find no other friend so generous, so romantic, so unworldly as the Duchess had been.  It was clear to him that Lady Mary had told the story of her engagement to Mrs Finn, and that Mrs Finn had not as yet told the Duke.  From this he was justified in regarding Mrs Finn as the girl’s friend.  The request made was that he should at once do something which Mrs Finn was to suggest.  He could hardly have been so requested, and that in terms of such warm affection, had it been Mrs Finn’s intention to ask him to desist altogether from his courtship.  This woman was regarded by Lady Mary as her mother’s dearest friend.  It was therefore incumbent on him now to induce her to believe in him as the Duchess had believed.

He knocked at the door of Mrs Finn’s little house in Park Lane a few minutes before the time appointed, and found himself alone when he was shown into the drawing-room.  He had heard much of this lady though he had never seen her, and had heard much also of her husband.  There had been a kind of mystery about her.  People did not quite understand how it was that she had been so intimate with the Duchess, nor why the late Duke had left to her an enormous legacy, which as yet had never been claimed.  There was supposed, too, to have been something especially in her marriage with her present husband.  It was believed also that she was very rich.  The rumours of all these things together had made her a person of note, and Tregear, when he found himself alone in the drawing-room, looked round about him as though a special interest was to be attached to the belongings of such a woman.  It was a pretty room, somewhat dark, because the curtains were almost closed across the windows, but furnished with a pretty taste, and now, in these early April days, filled with flowers.

‘I have to apologise, Mr Tregear, for keeping you waiting,’ she said as she entered the room.

‘I fear I was before my time.’

‘I know that I am after mine,—­a few minutes,’ said the lady.  He told himself that though she was not a young woman, yet she was attractive.  She was dark, and still wore her black hair in curls, such as now seldom seen with ladies.  Perhaps the reduced light of the chamber had been regulated with some regard to her complexion and her age.  The effect, however, was good, and Frank Tregear felt at once interested in her.