“Good gracious, what’s that?” cries Volumnia with her little withered scream.
“A rat,” says my Lady. “And they have shot him.”
Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps and candles.
“No, no,” says Sir Leicester, “I think not. My Lady, do you object to the twilight?”
On the contrary, my Lady prefers it.
“Volumnia?”
Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the dark.
“Then take them away,” says Sir Leicester. “Tulkinghorn, I beg your pardon. How do you do?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders his passing homage to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester’s hand, and subsides into the chair proper to him when he has anything to communicate, on the opposite side of the Baronet’s little newspaper-table. Sir Leicester is apprehensive that my Lady, not being very well, will take cold at that open window. My Lady is obliged to him, but would rather sit there for the air. Sir Leicester rises, adjusts her scarf about her, and returns to his seat. Mr. Tulkinghorn in the meanwhile takes a pinch of snuff.
“Now,” says Sir Leicester. “How has that contest gone?”