Francis recognised at a glance the woman of all others whom
he most cordially disliked--the widow of his dead brother,
the first Lord Montbarry. He frowned as he looked at her.
His experience on the stage, gathered at innumerable rehearsals
with actresses who had sorely tried his temper, had accustomed
him to speak roughly to women who were distasteful to him.
'I remember you,' he said. 'I thought you were in America!'
She took no notice of his ungracious tone and manner; she simply
stopped him when he lifted his hat, and turned to leave her.
'Let me walk with you for a few minutes,' she quietly replied.
'I have something to say to you.'
He showed her his cigar. 'I am smoking,' he said.
'I don't mind smoking.'
After that, there was nothing to be done (short of downright brutality)
but to yield. He did it with the worst possible grace.
'Well?' he resumed. 'What do you want of me?'
'You shall hear directly, Mr. Westwick. Let me first
tell you what my position is. I am alone in the world.
To the loss of my husband has now been added another bereavement,
the loss of my companion in America, my brother--Baron Rivar.
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