She answered and put aside the last invitation-card, and then she drew out a letter in a straight, clear, girl’s writing. It was signed: “Affectionately yours, Maud Pomeroy,” and it bore reference to Miss Pomeroy’s prospective visit to her. Mrs. Romayne glanced through it, the vigour of her face seeming to accentuate as she did so, and then proceeded to write a few cordial, affectionate lines in answer. She was just directing the envelope when a servant came in with tea. Mrs. Romayne rose. “Send these letters to the post,” she said. She glanced at the clock again as she spoke, and at that moment the front-door bell rang. Left alone, Mrs. Romayne moved quickly to the looking-glass, and took an anxious, critical look at herself; it was as though she had learnt to distrust her appearance. The inspection, however, proved satisfactory, apparently; and as she turned quickly away as she heard steps upon the stairs, there was a self-dependence and sense of power in the bright, expectant keenness of her eyes. “Mr. Loring!” announced the servant, and Mr. Loring followed his name into the room. “I am very glad to see you,” said Mrs. Romayne, advancing to meet him. “This is a much better way of welcoming a friend than our meeting yesterday. I think I shall celebrate the occasion by saying not at home to any one else. Julian will be in, perhaps, and he will like to have you to himself. Not at home, Dawson,” she added in conclusion. There was a verve and brightness about her manner which was not exactly its usual vivacity, and which faintly suggested the presence of some kind of special excitement in her mind. Loring’s perceptions were in a state of rather abnormal acuteness; the situation had meanings for him, which had braced up his forces not inconsiderably. He detected that inward excitement about Mrs. Romayne instantly, and he was convinced also, though he could hardly have given a reason for the conviction, that there was not the smallest chance of Julian’s appearance. Both circumstances he reckoned as points in his favour in the game he was going to play. “It’s very charming of you,” he said. “Do you know this is the first time I have really felt that coming back to London means--something.” He took the chair she had indicated to him on the other side of the little tea-table as he spoke, and there was nothing lame or unfinished about the words spoken as he spoke them. His eyes were fixed upon Mrs. Romayne, but she was pouring out tea with so intent a look on her face as almost to suggest preoccupation. She did not look up, nor did the tone of his voice reach her, except superficially, apparently, for she replied with a pleasant, friendly laugh. “I should hope it did mean ‘something,’ indeed,” she said. “Friends should count for ‘something,’ surely, especially when they have really taken the trouble to miss you very much. Have you had such an unusually fascinating time in Africa, then?”