The Guinea Stamp by Alice Chetwynd Ley Read Free Book Online Page B

about him?”
    “Everything!” said Kitty, without hesitation. “His colouring, height, whether or not he is handsome, his tastes and interests—oh, anything at all you can think of!”
    “A tall order,” he said, smiling, “but I’ll do my best.” He screwed up his eyes in an effort of recollection. “His colouring is fair—no, perhaps not exactly. Let us say medium colouring. As to height, he’s neither tall nor short; as far as I recollect, just medium height, you know. I wouldn’t call him exactly handsome, but then, I don’t know what your standards are.”
    He smiled down at her. “He’s certainly not plain, however,” he finished. “I suppose one might fairly say—”
    “Medium!” concluded Kitty, in disgust. “I ask you, Jo, are not gentlemen hopeless when it comes to anything that really matters?”
    “But why does it matter?” asked Dorlais, quickly. “Why is this Mr. Cholcombe so very important to you, all at once?”
    “He’s not important to me,” laughed Kitty, “but to Joanna.”
    “To Miss Feniton?”
    “Yes, he—”
    “I think,” said Joanna, rising from her seat hurriedly, “that I had best go and write those letters of mine now.”
    She glanced at Lady Lodge. “Will you please to excuse me, ma’am?”
    Lady Lodge opened her mouth to give a gracious assent, but it was stillborn. Lady Feniton broke in upon her.
    “I suppose you may have an hour, if you insist upon it, Joanna. But I am sure that there can be nothing which may not very well wait until tomorrow. Do not stay longer, or I shall be obliged to send for you.”
    Guy Dorlais had risen with Joanna, and now moved forward to open the door for her, his back towards the group of which Lady Feniton was the centre. He made an expressive little grimace at Joanna as she passed him: she permitted herself an answering, half rueful smile.
    She made her way unhurriedly to the morning parlour, a room which was situated at that side of the house which overlooked the shrubbery. It was a pleasant room in summer, with its long glass doors giving on to three stone steps which led down to the garden. At present, these doors were shielded by heavy damask curtains of blue and gold, and a bright fire glowed on the hearth. Her letter writing had, of course, been an excuse: nevertheless, she thought, as she closed the door behind her, she might as well employ her hour of enforced solitude in that way as in any other. There were a few letters which ought to be answered.
    The writing desk was situated away from the fireplace, on the wall adjacent to the glass doors: it would be no hardship to be sitting away from the fire, for the room was very warm. She crossed over, and made herself comfortable at the desk, drawing the materials for her task from their various pigeon holes.
    She saw at once that the quill required mending, and searched for a penknife. Having found one, she began patiently to shape the nib.
    It seemed very quiet in the room. The scraping of the knife and the gentle tick of a clock upon the mantel shelf were the only sounds to break the silence. Possibly that was why it was so easy for her to detect the faint noise of a footfall on the path outside the doors—or had she imagined the sound, after all?
    She remained perfectly still for a moment, her long white fingers poised above the pen on which she was working.
    No, she had not imagined it, for now there was another sound, an unmistakable thud, as of some heavy object falling to the ground. She started to her feet, her heart beating a shade faster than usual.
    No doubt some young ladies might have called for the servants, gone into a fit of hysterics, or even swooned. Joanna Feniton had not been reared by her grandmother in this tradition.
    She boldly approached the French windows. Then, in one swift movement, she drew aside the curtains, unfastened the door, and threw it open. A rush of cold, damp air swept into the cosy room.
    “Who is there?” she demanded, in