Delia swept into the center of the room, her heavy satin dress rustling; a noble dim figure in the dusk.
“Are you not all I have, Perseus?” she said unsteadily. “Is it so long ago since father was slain by the Boyne and we vowed to serve the King he died for? Oh, my dear, why should you think I want to turn aside into placid safety?”
“Delia!” Sir Perseus held out his hand, “’tis only that sometimes I think you do not see the danger—”
“Why, I do love it,” she interrupted gaily. “The excitement is life to me—and you forget—are there so few faithful in England? We are only two of thousands who plot, and wait and long for the rightful King again!”
With a little laugh she came behind him and put her hand on his shoulder, while she gazed over his head into the fire.
“Yea, we will do it,” said Sir Perseus quietly. “We will oust the Dutchman, I think, Delia—there is a huge discontent everywhere.” He tapped the papers he had been writing, “there—in my reports to his Majesty, I have to mention many great men who would welcome him back—” he smiled grimly. “Many of them, those who welcomed William—”
“If his Majesty would but himself come over,” sighed Delia. “I think all England would rise to greet him!”
“Indeed,” answered her brother, “William has no friend in England—I marvel he holds the throne—at all—”
“’Twill not be for long,” cried Delia, with glittering eyes—“But—hark!”
A knock resounded through the empty house; Sir Perseus rose. “’Tis Jerome Caryl,” he said.