There was
not a hint as to the nature of it, merely a formal line or two and
a signature. Ernestine, who had written insulting letters to all
her relatives during the last few days, smiled as she laid it down.
Perhaps the family had called upon Mr. Cuthbert to undertake their
defence and bring her round to a reasonable view of things. The
idea was amusing enough, but her first impulse was not to go.
Nothing but the combination of an idle morning and a certain
measure of curiosity induced her to keep the appointment.
She was evidently expected, for she was shown at once into the
private office of the senior partner. The clerk who ushered her in
pronounced her name indistinctly, and the elderly man who rose from
his chair at her entrance looked at her inquiringly.
"I am Miss Wendermott," she said, coming forward. "I had a letter
from you this morning; you wished to see me, I believe."
Mr. Cuthbert dropped at once his eyeglass and his inquiring gaze,
and held out his hand.
"My dear Miss Wendermott," he said, "you must pardon the failing
eyesight of an old man. To be sure you are, to be sure. Sit down,
Miss Wendermott, if you please. Dear me, what a likeness!"
"You mean to my father?" she asked quietly.
"To your father, certainly, poor, dear old boy! You must excuse me,
Miss Wendermott.
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