He was
thin and small, with a clear olive complexion, olive inclining to pale
bronze, sleek raven hair, and black almond-shaped eyes. At the first
glance Lady Maulevrier knew that he was an Oriental. Her heart sank
within her, and seemed to grow chill as death at sight of him. Anything
associated with India was horrible to her.
The stranger came forward to meet her, bowing deferentially. He had
those lithe, gliding movements which she remembered of old, when she had
seen princes and dignitaries of the East creeping shoeless to her
husband's feet.
'Will your ladyship do me the honour to grant me an interview?' he said
in very good English. 'I have travelled from London expressly for that
privilege.'
'Then I fear you have wasted your time, sir, whatever your mission may
be,' the dowager answered, haughtily. 'However, I am willing to hear
anything you may have to say, if you will be good enough to come this
way.'
She moved towards the library, the butler preceding her to open the
door, and the stranger followed her into the spacious room, where coals
and logs were heaped high upon the wide dog stove, deeply recessed
beneath the old English mantelpiece.
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