The cosy study was filled with books and littered with the work he loved.
Presently, with noiseless step, entered old Thomas; turned on the lights, made the fire blaze, stealthily tidied the room, moved a small table to the couch, and brought in the tea.
“Take it while it’s hot, Sir Nigel.”
“All right, Thomas.”
“Mary has made a dish of those bannocks, Sir Nigel, of which you and her ladyship used to be so fond.”
“Mary is a wonder, Thomas. Her memory is as excellent as her cooking. All right; I’ll take half an hour off. I’ve done a good day’s work already.... No; don’t draw the curtains yet awhile. There may be some lonely soul passing by, in the cold and dark out there, who will enjoy the sight of this cosy warmth and brightness. I will draw them, when I get back to work.”
As the old man left the room, closing the door behind him, Luke Sparrow pushed aside his mass of papers, rose, flung himself upon the couch, stretched his limbs, and shook off the strain of long hours of concentration.
A tempting tea tray, arranged with much care and thought, was at his elbow. Mary’s golden bannocks stood for memories—memories not his own; but he took them, on trust, from Mary.
The room was a perfect combination of work and comfort; outside interests and home.
He took a miniature-case from his pocket and opened it. Exquisitely painted on ivory, the lovely face looked out at him; the lips smiled their message of abiding tenderness. It had been painted before the night which turned that bright hair white. Of all the treasures he had found in the despatch-box, this meant the most to him.