Towards the other end of the room stood the tea-table, between the fire and an open window.  Lord Lackington sat beside it, smiling to himself, and stroking a Persian kitten.  Through the open window the twinkling buds on the lilacs in the Cureton House garden shone in the still lingering sun.  A recent shower had left behind it odors of earth and grass.  Even in this London air they spoke of the spring—­the spring which already in happier lands was drawing veils of peach and cherry blossom, over the red Sienese earth or the green terraces of Como.  The fire crackled in the grate.  The pretty, old-fashioned room was fragrant with hyacinth and narcissus; Julie’s books lay on the tables; Julie’s hand and taste were already to be felt everywhere.  And Lord Lackington with the kitten, beside the fire, gave the last touch of home and domesticity.

“So I find you established?” said Warkworth, smiling, to the lady with the nails, while Delafield nodded to him from the top of the steps and Meredith ceased to chatter.

“I haven’t a hand, I fear,” said Julie.  “Will you have some tea?  Ah, Leonie, tu vas en faire de nouveau, n’est-ce pas, pour ce monsieur?”

A little woman in black, with a shawl over her shoulders, had just glided into the room.  She had a small, wrinkled face, bright eyes, and a much-flattened nose.

“Tout de suite, monsieur,” she said, quickly, and disappeared with the teapot.  Warkworth guessed, of course, that she was Madame Bornier, the foster-sister—­the “Propriety” of this menage.

“Can’t I help?” he said to Julie, with a look at Delafield.

“It’s just done,” she said, coldly, handing a nail to Delafield. “Just a trifle more to the right.  Ecco!  Perfection!”

“Oh, you spoil him,” said Meredith, “And not one word of praise for me!”

“What have you done?” she said, laughing.  “Tangled the cord—­that’s all!”

Warkworth turned away.  His face, so radiant as he entered, had settled into sharp, sudden lines.  What was the meaning of this voice, this manner?  He remembered that to his three letters he had received no word of reply.  But he had interpreted that to mean that she was in the throes of moving and could find no time to write.

As he neared the tea-table, Lord Lackington looked up.  He greeted the new-comer with the absent stateliness he generally put on when his mind was in a state of confusion as to a person’s identity.

“Well, so they’re sending you to D——?  There’ll be a row there before long.  Wish you joy of the missionaries!”

“No, not D——­,” said Warkworth, smiling.  “Nothing so amusing.  Mokembe’s my destination.”

“Oh, Mokembe!” said Lord Lackington, a little abashed.  “That’s where Cecil Ray, Lord R’s second son, was killed last year—­lion-hunting?  No, it was of fever that he died.  By-the-way, a vile climate!”

“In the plains, yes,” said Warkworth, seating himself.  “As to the uplands, I understand they are to be the Switzerland of Africa.”