“He has the cheek,” she thought, afire with indignation—­never so hot and bitter as when directed against one we love who has offended us—­ “he has the unspeakable effrontery to come and see me now, when he never came near me all those hard years—­never cared how I muddled and struggled, nor whether I was alive or dead!”

But she must see him, of course.  And she must maintain her proper dignity.  No descending to vulgar reproaches—­still less to weak condonation.  She took a moment to calm herself, and walked forth to the interview.  Many things upheld her, but the dead hand of Mr Thornycroft was her stoutest support.

She needed it when she reached the top of the stairs.  Facing the drawing-room door, awaiting her, stood the figure that really seemed the one thing wanting to complete the beauty of the beautiful house.  He had never in his younger days been so distinguished-looking as he was now.  In any company, in any part of the world, he must have attracted notice, as a gentleman, in person and manners, of the very finest type.  And how she did love that sort!  How her lonely and hungry heart longed for him when she saw him—­the only man she had ever deemed her natural mate—­and at the same time how she hated him for the disappointment and the humiliation that he had brought her!  Outraged self-respect, her robust will-power, and her quarter of a million sufficed to save her from a temptation she would not have fallen into for the world.

She swept forward to shake hands with him, with the grave affability of a great lady to a guest—­any guest—­and it was plain from the expression of his sensitive face that he was as keenly appreciative of her enhanced beauty and ‘finish’ as she of his.  Black was not her colour—­she was too dark—­and she had discarded it for pale greys and whites, with touches of black about them; today a creamy woollen, thick and soft, and hanging about her like the drapery of a Greek statue, was an inspiration in becoming gowns.  The maid who had dressed her hair was a mistress of the art.  And Miss Pennycuick’s step and poise—­well, she was a great lady, and carried herself accordingly.

Her old lover was charmed.  He held her hand—­and would have held it thrice as long—­and looked into her eyes, too overcome, it appeared, to speak.

“How do you do?” she said, evading his intense gaze.  “What a man you are for dropping on one in this unexpected, sensational way!  Why didn’t you write and tell me you were around?”

She made a movement to withdraw her hand.  He held it fast.

“Debbie,” said he, in quite a tremulous voice—­remarkable in one constitutionally so self-confident and self-possessed—­“Debbie, you turned me out of your house when I came to see you last.  I hope you have a different welcome for me this time?”

“To the best of my belief,” she laughed, “you insisted upon going.  I am sure you were asked to stay—­to lunch, or whatever it was.  By the way, have you lunched now?” She showed concern for her obligations as his hostess.