I.
Never shall I forget my first meeting with Irene Latouche. After
travelling all day, I had arrived at my friend Maitland's house to find
that dinner had been over for at least an hour. Having taken the
precaution of dining during the journey this did not affect me very
materially; but my kindly host, who met me in the hall, took it very
much to heart.
"We quite gave you up, my dear fellow, we did indeed," he reiterated,
grasping my hand with additional fervour each time he made the
assertion. "My wife will be so vexed at your missing dinner. You are
sure you won't have a bit now? Such a haunch of venison, hung to a turn!
One of old Ward's. You know he has taken Glen Bogie this season, and is
having rare sport, I am told. Ah, well, if you really won't take
anything, we had better join the ladies in the drawing-room."
"But the luggage hasn't come from the station yet," I interposed, "and
my dress clothes are in my portmanteau--"
"Nonsense about dress clothes! It will be bed-time soon. You don't
suppose anybody cares what you have on, do you?"
With this comforting assurance, Maitland pushed open the drawing-room
door, and a flood of light streamed out into the hall. Dazzled by the
sudden glare I stepped back, but not before I had caught sight of a most
striking figure at the further end of the long room.
"Who on earth is that girl?" I whispered.
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