“You write a fine hand,” said she, picking the stopper out of the inkpot with the point of the corkscrew.
“Ah,” said he, “my cellar book was a sight to see! It’s lain useless these six months. But so long,” he said, proudly but sadly, “as I kept the keys no one can say but as I kept the book.”
So he had indeed, with a quaint fidelity; and amazing reading it would have proved to the casual inspector, who would have founded wild opinions of Sir David’s and his cousin’s prowesses in the matter of toping.
“Do you want the keys back?” asked Margery, in a quiet whisper, “or is this to be the last bottle of port you’ll ever taste?”
He stared at her, his moist lip working. She seemed to find the answer sufficient, for she motioned him into his seat.
“Then you sit down and write,” said she, “and I promise you Bindon shall get his rights again, and our good master’s quiet, comfortable house be rid of her that brings no good to it.”
Giles sat down submissively, dipped the quill into the ink, manipulated it with the flourish of the proud penman; then, squaring his wrists flat on the sheet, prepared to start.
“I’d never have troubled you,” explained Margery, apologetically, “had I had your grand education, Mr. Giles.”
“Who be I to write to?” said Giles, with the stern air of the male mind controlling the female one, as it would wander from the point.
Again Margery whispered, not for fear of listeners, but to give the allurement of mystery to her purpose: