While she still sat there the bell rang, and quite suddenly she
chased away the troubled look from her eyes, leaving there the keen,
kindly gaze to which the world of London society was well
accustomed. When Jack Meredith came into the room, she rose to
greet him with a smile of welcome.
"Before I shake hands," she said, "tell me if you have been to see
your father."
"I went last night--almost straight from the station. The first
person I spoke to in London, except a cabman."
So she shook hands.
"You know," she said, without looking at him--indeed, carefully
avoiding doing so--"life is too short to quarrel with one's father.
At least it may prove too short to make it up again--that is the
danger."
She sat down, with a graceful swing of her silken skirt which was
habitual with her--the remnant of a past day.
Jack Meredith winced. He had seen a difference in his father, and
Lady Cantourne was corroborating it.
"The quarrel was not mine," he said. "I admit that I ought to have
known him better. I ought to have spoken to him before asking
Millicent. It was a mistake."
Lady Cantourne looked up suddenly.
"What was a mistake?"
"Not asking his--opinion first."
She turned to the table where his letter lay, and fingered the paper
pensively.
"I thought, perhaps, that you had found that the other was a
mistake--the engagement.
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