Alayne's amazement on seeing Finch at her door was a mild emotion compared with that which she experienced when it opened upon Ernest. She would scarcely have been more taken aback had one of the tall old trees of Jalna drawn up its roots and journeyed to visit her. She suffered him to shake her hand, to imprint a kiss on her cheek. She put him into the Chinese-red chair, and even then she could not believe in his reality. Her eyes sought the door, half expecting to behold the rest of the procession—Grandmother and Boney, Nicholas and Nip, Renny and his spaniels, Piers and Pheasant, little Wake.
"But, my dear child," said Ernest, "how good it is to see you!"
"Yes, indeed," said Alayne, sitting down near him and trying to make her voice natural, "it is delightful to see you, too."
"You're looking pale, dear Alayne."
"Ah, well, you know what winter in the city is. I've been tired to death sometimes."
She realized, now that the shock of surprise was passing, why he had come. He had come to take Finch home, and, if possible, she would prevent it.
She turned a look of defence on him. "I suppose you've come to see Finch," she said.
Ernest was embarrassed. He wished she had not come so directly to the point. He would have liked to have a little pleasant conversation, and then have led up delicately to the object of his visit.
"Well, my dear Alayne, I suppose I shall see Finch, now that I'm here, but it really gives me a much deeper pleasure to see you."
"You're not really going to insist on the poor boy going back with you, surely!"
