Now the awakening had come, and could not be put off.
He found himself seated in the deserted card-room facing Hero’s father across a small green table, on which two packs of used cards and three or four scoring-blocks awaited the return of the bridge-players.
The sight of the soiled packs affected him painfully. He knew that this economy was due to the exorbitant French tax, but yet it struck upon him as a note of squalor. The cards themselves were small and badly made, like most things made by Governments. He drew one of the packs towards him, and began shuffling it nervously while he waited for Vanbrugh to speak.
Vanbrugh noted the action with a physician’s eye.
“I expect you have guessed what I want to speak to you about,” he said quietly.
Alistair lifted his eyes from the cards and stole a glance at his questioner, a glance not free from the cunning of his Pictish blood. But he said nothing.
“My daughter tells me that you have asked her to become your wife.”
For a moment Alistair made no response. Keeping his head down he cut four cards in rapid succession—a club, a spade, a diamond, and then another diamond. He took it as a bad omen.
“Has she told you anything more?” he asked.
“Only that she had given you her consent.” Vanbrugh hesitated; he found it harder than he had expected to tell this young man the truth about himself.