Marrion laughed. So much the better for her plans.
"Take a hot iron to the dining-room," she said, "and set the lace-board. You can take the ties round to his lodgings after supper."
[CHAPTER II]
Seven years had not improved old Lord Drummuir's temper, neither had it softened the arrogance of his sway over the household. Marrion realised this in a second, as, entering the study under the name of Mrs. Marsden--a lady who, according to the footman, was--"Oh, yes, sir, quite young, and yes, sir, quite good-looking!" and who had private business with his lordship, she found herself instantly recognised by three pairs of eyes. One the occupant of the familiar wheel-chair, the others those of my lady and Penelope. The sight of the latter was unexpected, for though Marrion knew her grandfather had died the previous year she had not heard of Penelope's reinstallation as confidential attendant to my lady. It was not an arrangement likely to occur to anyone out of Drummuir Castle; but there all things were possible.
In the instant's pause which followed on her entrance Marrion had time to note that the old man had changed but little. His face had lost somewhat of its colour, but the look of absolute domineering power was strong as ever. My lady had grown stout--the very idea of a fandango was far from her now--and the colour had come to her face in unbecoming fashion. Penelope, on the other hand, had grown thinner, and in her black dress looked prim propriety.
"Well, young woman?" began his lordship.
It was a signal for indignant protest from those two.
"Drummuir," shrilled the lady, "if you speak to that creature I must leave the room!"
Penelope's answering assent was audible in a snort.
The old man fixed them with a stony stare.