Part 10 (1/2)

CHAPTER VII

Marcia Hannaway called upon her publisher during the course of the following day. She found the ready entre of a privileged client--with scarcely a moment's delay she was ushered into the presence of James Borden, the person who for some years now had occupied the second place in her thoughts and life.

”Anything happened, Marcia?” he enquired, after their quiet but familiar greeting. ”You look as though you were bringing Fate with you.”

She made herself comfortable in the easy-chair which he had drawn up to the fire. Outside, an unexpectedly cold wind made the sense of warmth doubly pleasant. She unfastened her simple furs and smiled at him a little dolefully.

”Just this,” she replied, handing him a letter.

He spread it out, adjusted his eyegla.s.ses and read it deliberately:

94, GROSVENOR SQUARE, Thursday.

_My dear Marcia:_

I have made enquiries with reference to the non-payment of your allowance for the last two quarters, and now enclose cheque for the amount, drawn by my agent in Norfolk and payable to yourself. I think I can promise you that no further irregularities shall occur.

I look forward to seeing you to-morrow afternoon, and I must tell you of a financial operation I am now conducting, which, if successful, may enable me to pay off the mortgages which render the Norfolk estates so unremunerative.

I trust that you are well, dear. I have ordered Carlton White's to send in a few flowers, which I hope will arrive safely.

Yours, REGINALD.

James Borden read the letter carefully, glanced at the small coronet at the top of the paper, and folded it up.

”I'm sorry, Marcia,” he said simply.

She made a little grimace.

”My dear man,” she confessed, ”so am I. After all, though, I am not sure that the money makes all the difference. You see, if he really were too poor--or rather if his lawyers couldn't raise the money to send to me--I fancy that I should feel just the same.”

The publisher turned his chair round towards the fire. He was a man of barely middle age, although his black hair was besprinkled with grey and growing a little thin at the temples. His features were good, but his face was a little thin, and his clothes were scarcely as tidy, or the appointments of his office so comfortable as his name and position in the publis.h.i.+ng world might have warranted. Marcia, who had been looking at him while he read, leaned forward and brushed the cigarette ash from his coat sleeve.

”Such an untidy man!” she declared, straightening his tie. ”I am not at all sure that you deserve to have lady clients calling upon you.

Were you late last night?”

”A little,” he confessed.

”That means about one or two, I suppose,” she went on reprovingly.

”I dined at the club and stayed on,” he told her. ”There was nothing else to do except work, and I was a little tired of that.”

”Any fresh stuff in--interesting stuff, I mean?”

He shook his head.

”Three more Russian novels,” he replied, ”all in French and want translating, of course. The only one I have read is terribly grim and sordid. I dare say it would sell. I am going to read the other two before I decide anything. Then perhaps you'll help me.”

”Of course I will,” she promised. ”I do wish, though, James, you wouldn't stay at the club so late. How many whiskies and sodas?”

”I didn't count,” he confessed.