Mr. Wedderburn turned and looked at him: “The white rose and the golden lily—England and France,” he said slowly, “and here is my commission.” He took from his pocket a parchment with swinging seals and laid it sweepingly upon the table.
Jerome Caryl picked it up, looked at it, then turned to Sir Perseus, who had followed him.
“This is Mr. Wedderburn, the King’s messenger,” he said gravely, then to the other: “I am glad, sir, of your safe arrival.”
“Good-even,” said Sir Perseus, then glancing the stranger over: “they keep you fine in France, sir,” he commented.
Mr. Wedderburn smiled disdainfully.
“My habit is not the matter under discussion,” he returned. “I dress as fits my station—as one of His Majesty’s friends.”
Sir Perseus shrugged his shoulders; Jerome Caryl seated himself rather wearily at the table, with a gentle smile of greeting to Delia and spoke to the King’s messenger:
“The papers you had to deliver?” he said. “I am anxious, sir, for His Majesty’s letter.”
Mr. Wedderburn, taking the seat opposite, began the undoing of a packet he took from his breast, the two men meanwhile observed each other; Jerome Caryl openly with a calm frankness, the King’s messenger covertly, sideways and very keenly.
Delia, mechanically closing the window at her brother’s bidding, noticed how great a difference between the two at the table and thought that Jerome Caryl had faded utterly beside the vivid presence of the other.