Arrived, as he thought, at the door of the earl’s bedroom, he knocked, and receiving no answer, opened it, and found himself in a narrow passage. Nearly opposite was another door, partly open, and hearing a movement within, he ventured to knock there. A voice he knew at once to be lady Arctura’s, invited him to enter. It was an old, lovely, gloomy little room, in which sat the lady writing. It had but one low lattice-window, to the west, but a fire blazed cheerfully in the old-fashioned grate. She looked up, nor showed more surprise than if he had been a servant she had rung for.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said: “my lord wished to see me, but I have lost my way.”
“I will show it you,” she answered, and rising came to him.
She led him along the winding narrow passage, pointed out to him the door of his lordship’s sitting-room, and turned away—again, Donal could not help thinking, with a look as of some anxiety about him.
He knocked, and the voice of the earl bade him enter.
His lordship was in his dressing-gown, on a couch of faded satin of a gold colour, against which his pale yellow face looked cadaverous.
“Good morning, Mr. Grant,” he said. “I am glad to see you better!”
“I thank you, my lord,” returned Donal. “I have to make an apology. I cannot understand how it was, except, perhaps, that, being so little accustomed to strong drink,—”
“There is not the smallest occasion to say a word,” interrupted his lordship. “You did not once forget yourself, or cease to behave like a gentleman!”
“Your lordship is very kind. Still I cannot help being sorry. I shall take good care in the future.”