"Mistress Lanison."
She started. She was almost unconscious that the people who had
surrounded her just now had gone and closed the door. She was alone in
the hall with Sydney Fellowes, from whom a few moments ago she had cried
out to be delivered.
"Mistress Lanison, I ask your pardon for to-night. Forget it, blot it
out of your memory, if you can. If some day you would deign to set me a
task whereby I might prove my repentance, I swear you shall be humbly
served. Against your will, perhaps, you have picked me out of the
gutter. Please God, I'll keep out of it. Thank you for all you have done
for me."
He spoke hurriedly, giving her no opportunity to answer him, and then
turned and left her, going out through the door which opened on to the
terrace, and which still stood open. Had he waited Barbara would not
have answered him, perhaps; she was not thinking of him, but of Martin
Fairley and the laugh of his fiddle. The sound of Fellowes's retreating
footsteps had died into silence before she turned and went out slowly on
to the terrace, closing the door quietly behind her.
The fiddle, with the bow beside it, lay on the table near its master, a
strange master, whose moods were as varying as are those of an April
day.
Pages:
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100