Miss Merriot sat down by the fire, and stretched one foot in its buckled shoe to the blaze. There was a red heel to her shoe, and marvellous embroidered clocks to her silken stockings. “So!” said Miss Merriot. “How do you, my Peter?”
“I don’t melt in a shower of rain, I believe,” Peter said, and sat down on the edge of the table, swinging one booted leg.
“No, faith, child, there’s too much of you for that.”
The gentleman’s rich chuckle sounded. “I’m sufficiently substantial, in truth,” he remarked. He drew out his gold and enamelled snuff-box from one of his huge coat pockets, and took a pinch with an air, delicately shaking the ruffles of lace back from his wrists. A ruby ring glowed on one of his long fingers, while on the other hand he wore a big gold seal ring. A smile crept up into his eyes, and lurked at the corners of his mouth. “I’d give something to know where the old gentleman is,” he said.
“Safe enough, I’ll be bound,” Madam answered, and laughed. “It’s the devil himself, I believe, and will appear in London to snap his fingers under the noses of all King George’s men.”
“Fie, Kate: my poor, respected papa!” Mr Merriot was not shocked. He fobbed his snuff-box and put it away. A faint crease showed between his brows. “For all he named London — egad, ’tis like his impudence! — it’s odds he’s gone to France.”
“I don’t permit myself to hope too much,” said Miss Merriot, with a smile at once dreamy and a little impish. “He’ll be there to lead us another of his mad dances. If not... I’ve a mind to try our own fortunes.”
“In truth, I’ve a kindness for the old gentleman,” said Mr Merriot pensively. “His dances lead somewhere.”
“To lost causes.” There was a hint of bitterness in the tone.
Mr Merriot looked up. “Ay, you’ve taken it to heart.”