"Sir George Duncombe, is it not?" she remarked. "I am not receiving this
afternoon, but your message was so urgent. Forgive me, but it was not by
any chance my husband whom you wished to see?"
"Your husband would have done as well, Madame," Duncombe answered
bluntly, "but I learned that he was not at home. My visit is really to
Miss Poynton. I should be exceedingly obliged if you would allow me the
privilege of a few minutes' conversation with her."
The forehead of the Marquise was wrinkled with surprise. She stood
amidst all the wonders of her magnificent drawing-room like a dainty
Dresden doll--petite, cold, dressed to perfection. Her manner and her
tone were alike frigid.
"But, Monsieur," she said, "that is wholly impossible. Mademoiselle is
too thoroughly upset by the terrible news in the paper this morning. It
is unheard of. Monsieur may call again if he is a friend of Mademoiselle
Poynton's--say, in a fortnight."
"Marquise," he said, "it is necessary that I see Mademoiselle at once. I
am the bearer of good news."
The Marquise looked at him steadily.
"Of good news, Monsieur?"
"Certainly!"
"But how can that be?"
"If Madame will give me the opportunity," he said, "I should only be too
glad to explain--to Mademoiselle Poynton.
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