“New Year’s Eve! We are spending it in an exemplary way!” he cried. “This place looks like good-will and festivity, does it not? How many homes look as gloomy as this to-night!”
“Very few, I should imagine,” said the Viscount. “Will you bring me that book if you have it?”
The Master gave him a bitter glance; before he could answer the entrance curtain was drawn aside and a lady entered, a gentleman behind her.
She was wrapped in a long purple cloak, the hood drawn over her head.
At sight of the Master of Stair she hesitated, and the man behind, slipping past her, came into the center of the room.
He was blond, good-humored, elegant; he smiled delightfully as he bowed to the silent figure by the hearth.
“Good-even, Sir John,” he said. “I have brought my lady back from Kensington.”
“Good-even Mr. Wharton,” answered the Master, staring past him.
The atmosphere was decidedly oppressive; the Viscount gave a malicious smile. Lady Dalrymple came forward in a heavy silence, but Tom Wharton knew no such word as embarrassment; he smiled still more good-humoredly.
“I was not aware Sir John had returned,” he said, addressing the Viscount.