"My good soul, I have no stomach for supper. I dined—no, by the way, I did not dine, but I ate something before I left town."
"Nay, indeed, if your lordship had no dinner you ought to enjoy a split pullet and a dish of stewed cheese. I grilled the pullet with my own hands, to make sure of despatch. And Thomas has taken up a couple of bottles of your lordship's favourite Burgundy."
"Well, I will taste your pullet with a glass of Burgundy. What is the hour?"
"Nearly eleven. Your lordship's bedchamber is being prepared."
"I have my wakeful fit on, and shall not retire early. No one need sit up for me. I shall want nothing after I have supped."
"Your lordship is always considerate."
"And now go, my good Becket, and attend to Vincenti. He is a fit subject for some of your old-fashioned family medicines."
Lavendale smiled at the thought of handing over the adept to the tender mercies of his grandmother's pupil—the student of Paracelsus and Roger Bacon to the household practitioner, learned in the traditions of village midwives and itinerant herbalists, and the elaborate prescriptions of ancient ladies handed down from mother to daughter from the dark night of the Middle Ages, not altogether free from the savour of witchcraft. He was in a mood to wonder whether Paracelsus and the Ghebir Arabs were any cleverer than those ancient ladies who spent their mornings, aproned and bibbed, in the busy seclusion of the still-room.
He repaired to the red parlour, but although he had eaten scarcely anything since the supper at Vauxhall he had no appetite for Mrs. Becket's savoury pullet or smoking dish of cheese. His lips were parched, and food was distasteful to him; but he finished a bottle of Burgundy before he went back to the library, where he had his papers to look over and arrange on the eve of an exile that might be long.
The spacious seldom-inhabited room had a desolate aspect, dimly lighted by two pairs of wax candles in massive silver candlesticks. One pair stood on a bureau at the end of the room, the other on his lordship's scrutoire. The long windows were open to the summer night, the moon was rising, and her faint pale light shone in upon the empty floor.