“Maybe she did not mention to you she had received a message from him—why should she? She knows you have not the friendship for Tom Wharton that she has—”
“My lord,” said the Master of Stair, “forebear.” He was trembling in an agony of rage. He turned away.
“Where are you going?” inquired his father.
“To find her,” said Sir John.
“You will, I think—in the drawing-room,” remarked the Viscount smiling.
Without another word Sir John left the room. It was almost dark and the house held the dreariness of winter twilight; as the Master of Stair entered the drawing-room he was greeted with the faint soft light of candles, burning high up in their silver sconces against the white walls.
It was a vast room furnished in pale tints, cold, with a look of desertion, opal-colored curtains shut out the evening, and the slender furniture cast faint reflections on the polished floor.
On a little gold and cream-tinted couch by the fire sat Lady Dalrymple; in the dim light, with her delicate hued dress and her pale coloring, she looked like some dainty figure of wax, some doll set there to complete the picture, so quiet she was in her desolate splendor.
On a small table beside her stood a bird-cage; she was bending toward it and in the hollow of her hand lay a little bullfinch; her full blue eyes gazed at it anxiously; it was sick and lay quite passively in her hand, its feathers forlornly rough.
“Ah, don’t you die, too,” she whispered in a kind of horror. “Don’t you die, too.”