There he was, a strange, tall, lean man with
fair hair, and sad, cross, brown eyes, and a nose inclined to pink at the
tip--a look of indigestion about him, I feel sure. He was sitting in front
of a _Daily Telegraph_ propped up on the teapot, and some cold, untasted
sole on his plate.
I came forward. He looked very surprised.
"I--I'm Evangeline Travers," I announced.
He said "How d'you do?" awkwardly. One could see without a notion what
that meant.
"I'm staying here," I continued. "Did you not know?"
"Then won't you have some breakfast? Beastly cold, I fear," politeness
forced him to utter. "No, Ianthe never writes to me. I had not heard any
news for a fortnight, and I have not seen her yet."
Manners have been drummed into me from early youth, so I said, politely,
"You only arrived from Paris late last night, did you not?"
"I got in about seven o'clock, I think," he replied.
"We had to leave so early--we were going to the opera," I said.
"A Wagner that begins at unearthly hours, I suppose?" he murmured,
absently.
"No, it was 'Carmen,' but we dined first with my--my--guardian, Mr.
Carruthers."
"Oh!"
We both ate for a little. The tea was greenish black--and lukewarm. No
wonder he has dyspepsia.
"Are the children in, I wonder?" he hazarded, presently.
"Yes," I said.
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