Those original receptions were really very difficult.  Jemima announced a name which might or might not bear some relation to the visitor’s.  The lady entered.  Her name might perhaps be Mrs. Baker.  Maude had no means of knowing who Mrs. Baker might be.  The visitor seldom descended to an explanation.  Ten minutes of desultory and forced conversation about pinewoods and golf and cremation.  A cup of tea and a departure.  Then Maude would rush to the card-tray to try to find out whom it was that she had been talking to, and what it was all about.

Maude did not intend to go visiting that particular day, and she had hoped that no one might visit her.  The hours of danger were almost past, and it was close upon four o’clock, when there came a brisk pull at the bell.

‘Mrs. White,’ said Jemima, opening the drawing-room door.

‘Wright,’ said the visitor, as she walked in—­’Mrs. Violet Wright.’

Maude rose with her pleasant smile.  It was a peculiarly sweet and kindly smile, for it was inspired by a gentle womanly desire to make things pleasant for all who were around her.  Amiability was never artificial with her, for she had the true instincts of a lady—­those instincts so often spoken of, so seldom, so very seldom seen.  Like a gentleman, or a Christian, or any other ideal, it is but a poor approximation which is commonly attained.

But the visitor did not respond to the pretty gesture of welcome, nor did her handsome face return that sympathetic smile.  They stood for an instant looking at each other, the one tall, masterful, mature, the other sweet, girlish, and self-distrustful, but each beautiful and engaging in her own way.  Lucky Master Frank, whose past and present could take such a form; but luckier still if he could have closed the past when the present opened.  The visitor was silent, but her dark eyes looked critically and fixedly at her rival.  Maude, setting the silence down to the shyness of a first visit, tried to make matters easier.

’Please try this armchair.  No doubt you have had a tiring walk.  It is still very warm in the afternoons.  I think it was so kind of you to call.’

A faint smile flickered upon the dark face.

‘Kind of me to call!’ said she.

’Yes; for in a rising place like Woking, with so many new arrivals, it must be quite a task for the older inhabitants to welcome them.  I have been so surprised by the kindness which every one has shown.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said her visitor, ’you think that I live here.  I have really just come down from London.’

‘Indeed,’ said Maude, and awaited an explanation.  As none was forthcoming, she added, ‘You will find Woking a very nice place.’

‘A nice place to be buried in, alive or dead,’ said her visitor.

There was something peculiarly ungracious in her tone and manner.  It seemed to Maude that she had never before been alone with so singular a person.  There was, in the first place, her striking and yet rather sinister and voluptuous beauty.