“Our best Burgundy, my lord. Your lordship must be dry after your long ride; and if your lordship would care to sup, there is good picking on last Monday’s chine, and a capon from madam’s supper scarce touched with the carving-knife.”
“Nothing, I thank you, friend. There is no time for gluttony.”
Reuben, pressing the tankard upon him, he drank some wine with an automatic air, and still stood with his eyes fixed on Angela’s pallid countenance, waiting her decision.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“Does she want me? Has she asked for me? Oh, for God’s sake, my lord, tell me more! Is she dangerously ill? Have the doctors given her over?”
“No. But she is in a bad way. And you—you—you—are wanted. Will you come? Ay or no?”
“Yes. It is my duty to go to her. But when my father and Denzil come back to-morrow, Reuben must be able to tell them why I went; and the nature of my sister’s illness. Were it not so serious that there is no time for hesitation, it would ill become me to leave this house in my father’s absence.”
He gave his head a curious jerk at Denzil’s name, as if he had been stung.
“Yes, I will explain; I can make all clear to this gentleman here while you put on your cloak. Bring the black to the door,” he called to his man.
“Will not your lordship bait your horses before you start?” Reuben asked deferentially.