“The only woman I spoke to the whole afternoon was a young lady who, I believe, is going to marry my brother.”
“What’s her name?”
“I decline to tell you.” He walked over to the bell and rang it impatiently. “What the deuce are they keeping dinner for?”
Molly sat silent, watching him with all the cunning of a narrow intelligence concentrated on one point. No one in the world was more ignorant than Molly Finucane was of the things that are written about in books, but the keenest counsel who ever sifted the evidence of a lying witness could not have matched the sureness with which she detected anything in Alistair’s mind that threatened her supremacy over him. Her instinct now warned her that some danger had arisen for her, and her fear, overpowering her jealousy for the moment, made her hold her tongue.
No notice was taken of Lord Alistair’s ring, but after another ten minutes or so an untidy parlour-maid put her head into the room and announced that dinner was ready.
The dinner was badly cooked, and not appetising, and the parlour-maid had neglected to warm the claret. Molly called for champagne.
“There’s none left, ma’am,” the maid retorted, speaking in that hostile tone which her servants generally assumed towards Miss Finucane.
“Yes, there is, unless you’ve drunk it in the kitchen.”
An altercation between mistress and maid followed, high words being used on both sides. Stuart went on with his dinner in silent disgust, trying not to listen. He had sat through similar scenes often enough before, but they had not made the same impression on him. It was as though his whole nature had been set throbbing like a bell with a certain note, with which his surroundings were all out of tune.
The dinner was not only badly cooked, but it quickly appeared that there was not enough of it. On seeing a few slices of ham set before her in the place of a joint, the mistress of the house lost her temper.