Celia flung up her head with a jerk that loosened her hair from its pins and sent it rippling down her back: she laughed.
Sir John Dalrymple sat in his room in Romney a few hours later writing.
The room was warm and comfortable; a bright fire burned on the red-tiled hearth; a lamp hung over the table; Sir John wore a scarlet satin dressing-gown that fell open on his shirt and cravat; a crystal decanter stood empty beside him and a half-filled wine-glass.
He wrote with a reckless air of carelessness, his hand flew fast over the paper in a bold trailing writing; as he finished a sheet he tossed it across the table and took another. He was interrupted by some one softly entering; he looked up with an absorbed frown to see his secretary coming toward him with letters in his hand.
Sir John pushed his chair back and flung down his pen; his brilliant eyes were shadowed underneath and there was a curious drag at the corners of his mouth as if he had been in great pain.
“From London?” he demanded as he took the letters.
“Yes, Sir John—forwarded by my lord your father to the name you gave him.”
“Sit down,” said the Master of Stair. “I may need you, Melville.”
The secretary, meek and fair, sat down at the further end of the table and began mending a pen.