“Gerant always stays here,” he said, as they went upstairs. “Will you remain here, my dearest, till I see if he is ready to receive you?”
Margery smiled, and waited in a room that looked cozy and picturesque in the fireglow. The walls were hung with weapons of all nations; a heterogeneous mass of quaint, curious things were grouped in corners; carved and painted gourds were placed here and there, with ivory ornaments and rare bits of china. It represented a strange contrast to the dull, ordinary exterior of the house, and Margery found much to attract her till her husband returned.
“Now, my darling, come with me. Loose that heavy cloak, or you will be too warm; and, if the old man asks you to sing, will you gratify him?”
“With all my heart.”
Lord Court led his wife across a passage, and pushed open a door hung with curtains. The room that she entered was almost dark, but Margery saw a low, flat couch pulled near the fire, with a gray head resting on the pillow. She could not see the invalid’s face properly, but a faint something in the dark eyes struck her as familiar.
“I have brought my wife to see you, as I promised, Gerant,” said the earl, cheerfully, leading Margery to the couch.
“It is kind of you to come, Lady Court,” the sick man answered, in a faint, weak voice. “I have known your husband a long, long time—years, eh, Court?”
Where had Margery heard that voice before? It sounded familiar, faint and husky as it was.
“I am very glad to come,” she responded, simply, and took the chair the servant pushed forward.
“And Margery will sing for you, if you like.”