XXXVIII
It was a room of silence, save for the hissing of the green logs that burned on the open hearth, and for the slow movements of Jennings as he cleared the table. Straight and grim in his chair, with the newspaper by his side, Stephen Strangewey sat smoking stolidly. Opposite to him, almost as grim, equally silent, sat John.
"Things were quiet at Market Ketton to-day, then, John?" Stephen asked at last.
"There was nothing doing," was the brief reply.
That, for the space of a quarter of an hour or so, was the sole attempt at conversation between the two brothers. Then Jennings appeared with a decanter of wine and two glasses, which he reverently filled. Stephen held his up to the light and looked at it critically. John's remained by his side, unnoticed.
"A glass for yourself, Jennings," Stephen ordered.
"I thank ye kindly, sir," the old man replied.
He fetched a glass from the sideboard, filled it, and held it respectfully before him.
"It's the old toast," Stephen said glumly. "You know it!"
"Aye, Master Stephen!" the servant assented. "We've drunk it together for many a long year. I give it ye now with all my heart—confusion to all women!"