St. George read the note at a glance and with unspeakable relief.
They would see him. A refusal would have delayed and annoyed him
just then, in the flood-tide of his hope.
"My Dear Mr. St. George," the note ran. "My niece is not at
home, and I can not tell how your suggestion will be received
by her, though it is most kind. I may, however, answer for
myself that I shall be glad to see you at four o'clock this
afternoon.
"Very truly yours,
"MEDORA HASTINGS."
Grateful for her evident intention to waste no time, St. George
dressed and drove to the Boris, punctually sending up his card at
four o'clock. At once he was ushered to Mrs. Hastings' apartment.
St. George entered her drawing-room incuriously. Three years of
entering drawing-rooms which he never thereafter was to see had
robbed him of that sensation of indefinable charm which for many a
strange room never ceases to yield. He had found far too many tables
upholding nothing which one could remember, far too many pictures
that returned his look, and rugs that seemed to have been selected
arbitrarily and because there was none in stock that the owner
really liked.
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