The Master of Stair answered impatiently: “I forgot them. I had been dining with Montague, and went straight on to the meeting-place.”
Viscount Stair gave an unpleasant smile.
“Well,” he said calmly, “you have a fine head, John, you make a good many slips—a number of false steps. Take care the last isn’t up Tower Hill.” He spoke with an air of abstraction, as if, himself indifferent to everything, he could still feel cynically amused at the blunders of others.
His son gave him an angry glance.
“I have not deserved this, my lord; I have kept inside the law during many storms, and now I am the law.”
The Viscount leaned a little forward; as he moved it was noticeable that his neck was wry, a defect that gave him the appearance of leering over his shoulder as if he listened to some one who whispered there at his ear.
“I have kept you inside the law,” he said. “My advice has guided you so far—you reckless fool if you had asked me you had not gone among conspirators in that habit.”
He pointed mockingly at the gorgeous dress of his son whose anger rose the more at his tone.
“Sir,” he said. “I have achieved my purpose for all I am such a fool—they were deceived.”
“Being bigger fools,” commented the Viscount.