Mr Gisborne looked rather puzzled. “No, sir, I was speaking of his monetary affairs. Mr Drelincourt wrote about a week ago, stating his embarrassments, but you would not attend.”
“Do you find me a sore trial, Arnold? I am sure you must. It is time I made amends.”
“Does that mean you will look over the accounts, sir?” asked Mr Gisborne hopefully.
“No, my dear boy, it does not. But you may—ah—use your own discretion in the matter of Mr Drelincourt’s embarrassments.”
Mr Gisborne gave a short laugh. “If I were to use my own discretion, sir, Mr Drelincourt’s ceaseless demands on your generosity would find their way into the fire!” he said roundly.
“Precisely,” nodded the Earl, and went on up the stairs.
The boudoir smelt of roses. There were great bowls of them in the room, red and pink and white. In the middle of this bower, curled upon a couch with her cheek on her hand, Horatia was lying, fast asleep.
The Earl shut the door soundlessly, and trod across the thick Aubusson carpet to the couch, and stood for a moment, looking down at his wife.
She made a sufficiently pretty picture, her curls, free of powder, dressed loosely in the style the French called Greque a boucles badines, and one white shoulder just peeping from the lace of her negligee. A beam of sunlight, stealing through one of the windows, lay across her cheek; and seeing it, the Earl went over to the window, and drew the curtain a little way to shut it out. As he turned Horatia stirred and opened drowsy eyes. They fell on him, and widened. Horatia sat up. “Is it you, my l-lord? I’ve been asleep. Did you w-want me?”
“I did,” said Rule. “But I did not mean to wake you, Horry.”