“Are you waiting to see Mr. Hunter?”
Gees literally jumped as he faced from the picture to the speaker, a white-haired, almost ethereal-looking woman in a self-propelling invalid chair. Either its pneumatic tyres rendered it absolutely noiseless, or else he had been too absorbed in his scrutiny of the portrait to hear such slight sounds as it had made in approaching.
“I’m so sorry if I startled you,” she added as he faced her.
“Not at all, madam,” he answered, rather confusedly. “The— er— the maid has gone to look for him. I am in no hurry.”
Her gaze appraised him, even approved him, he thought. He had never heard a sweeter voice, nor seen in a woman of her age— though her condition probably made her appear older than her years— a face of more delicate beauty. And her hands, finely-mou
