“When I pay you to ‘think’ I’ll tell you so,” Sir Robert replied icily. “I am still able to think for myself, Thomson.”
A quiver of emotion passed over Thomson’s usually passive face.
“I’m sorry, Sir Robert; it was an error of judgment on my part. It shall not occur again. I—I have served you faithfully these many years.”
“I never said you hadn’t. But remember in future, please, that excess of zeal is sometimes more dangerous than a deficiency of that otherwise excellent commodity. And now you had better call Perkins to help you put me to bed.”
“Very good, sir,” said Thomson.
CHAPTER XXII A PEACEMAKER
On Christmas morning Grace Carling knelt before the altar in Westminster Abbey, where, as usual at this early service, there were but a few worshippers.
Through the vast, dim spaces above, beyond the radiance of the lighted chancel, the soft coo of the pigeons outside was distinctly audible above the low tones of the ministrant priest. Of other sounds there were none; the very spirit of peace seemed to brood over the glorious old place, the spiritual heart of England to-day as through so many long, long centuries.