“Gruel, my lord,” replied Fletcher, expressionless.
The Marquis leaned his head back on the pillows, and continued to survey his henchman. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he inquired softly.
“No, my lord.”
“Then what the devil do you mean by bringing me a bowl of gruel? Where did you get it? Don’t dare to tell me a Frenchman perpetrated such an abomination!”
“The lady prepared it, my lord.”
There was a short but pregnant silence. “Take it away,” said his lordship, with dangerous restraint.
“The lady told me, my lord, that I was on no account to do so,” said Fletcher apologetically.
My lord’s fingers crooked themselves round one of the handles of the bowl. “Are you going to take it away, Fletcher?” he inquired very gently.
Fletcher, with one eye warily on the movement of that white hand, said, abandoning the struggle: “Certainly, my lord.”
Vidal removed his hand from the bowl. “I thought so. Bring me something fit to eat, and a bottle of claret.”