It was an intense moment.
But, as in real life intense moments generally are, it was broken by a curious interruption.
A voice came thickly from the arm-chair by the fire, where old Lady Poole had been reclining in placid sleep. It was the strange voice of one who sleeps, without expression, but perfectly distinct.
"I will not have it, cook—(indistinguishable murmur)—explained when I engaged you—will not have men in the kitchen!"
Sir William and Marjorie looked at each other for a moment with blank faces. Then, all overstrung as they were, the absurdity of the occurrence struck them at the same moment, and they began to laugh softly together.
It was a little pleasant and very human interlude in the middle of these high matters, and at that moment the great man felt that he was nearer to Marjorie than he had been before at any other moment of the afternoon. She no longer hung entranced upon his impassioned and wonderful words, she laughed with him quite quietly and simply.
Lady Poole snored deeply, and no longer vocalized the drama of her domestic dream.
Suddenly Marjorie turned back once more to Sir William.
"It's only mother dreaming about one of the servants we have had to send away," she said. "What a stupid interruption! Now, go on, go on!"
Her voice recalled him to his marvellous story.