“Better!” said His Grace. “Then shall we go to our room, Biddy? We’ve not eaten; send some claret and fruit and cold fowl—what else, Biddy?”
“Some little cakes stuffed full with raisins, if there’re any about,” suggested Her Grace hopefully.
“Cakes,” commanded the Duke of Bolingham in a voice that would have raised cakes from the stone flags. “Will you have a maid, Biddy?”
“Whatever for?” inquired Biddy with candid interest. “I’ve still the use of all ten of my fingers, and you’d be there to help if I broke one, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” said the duke, his arm closing faster about her, his voice shaken. “No maid. Is the room ready, Layton?”
“Quite ready, Your Grace.” Layton seized the great black dressing-case with the gold locks and the little snakeskin jewel case that Biddy had pounced on in Bond Street that morning, and James swung up the huge pigskin bags of His Grace, and Potter appeared from somewhere with fruit and wine, and Durkin from nowhere with a silver basket of small cakes, and a very young gentleman called Tunbridge appeared with candles that were larger than he. The duke and the duchess followed this procession up the dark splendour of the stairs, with Merlin padding superbly behind his witch. When they reached the landing the procession swung to the right.
“Here!” called Bolingham. “Which room?”
“The Damask Room, Your Grace.”
“No,” said His Grace. “No.” He did not raise his voice, but his fingers crushed down desperately on the light ones lying in his. “We’ll use the Blue Room.”
The agitated voice of the housekeeper cried, “Oh, Your Grace, it’s not ready!”