“Yes,” said Perrin. “They are so simple. They’re like a simple person speaking passionately. They leave the intellect untouched, of course.”
“Yes. But you and Charles are always blaming poultry, shall we say, for not being golden eagles. Poultry as poultry are very good. Don’t you think so? Won’t you sit down, Edward? This is the song the negroes sang. I think it’s so charming.”
While she touched the tune upon the spinet, Margaret stood in the presence of Howard, the Governor, a heavy-looking, weary-looking man with dark moustaches. His voice was hard and grating, an official voice. It jarred on Margaret, who expected bad news from it.
“Sit down, Margaret,” he said, picking up a letter. “I hope you’re well.”
“Thanks. Yes. You wanted to see me?”
“Do you know that I could lodge you all in prison?”
“So you’ve heard, then?”
“Read this letter.”
He glanced through the letter of instructions from the Board. It set forth Stukeley’s crime, the details of the escape from Salcombe, the necessity for the arrest of the whole party; it was not a pleasant letter. No one had ever before described Margaret as an abettor of felons; the sensation was new; and oppressive, like some contaminations.
“Well,” said Howard. “You seem to take it very coolly.”