He kissed her hand ceremoniously. “News of a kind, yes,” he answered—“and you?”
“Oh, things go well in Scotland!” she cried, “but—enter—sir—”
He followed her into the room, and while the two men exchanged greetings she eagerly scanned the countenance of the new-comer.
Jerome Caryl had the figure as well as the dress of a soldier; a quiet, easy air, a soft voice and the face of a woman saint; a face that seen alone none would have ever taken for that of a man, so perfect was the contour of the small, regular features, the sweet mouth, the straight nose, the dimpled chin, the large, soft, melancholy hazel eyes, the brilliant, smooth complexion.
Beside the rough blunt appearance of Sir Perseus, his face, pale with fatigue, looked like that of a musing girl; far more soft and sweet than the firm features of Delia Featherstonehaugh, all aglow with excitement.
“How go things in London?” asked Sir Perseus. “We have had few letters.”
“It was not deemed safe to write,” answered Jerome Caryl in his low melodious voice. “Pray, Mistress Delia—sit and hearken—I have dined—I am in want of nothing save the ear of my friends—yet—have you nothing to tell?”
Delia was stirring the fire into a blaze; she looked round with an eager smile.
“Perseus hath been much engaged,” she said. “There is great discontent here—and the Highlands have not taken the oaths to the government—”
Perseus glanced affectionately at his sister. “Is she not a valiant plotter, Jerome?” he said. “Her spirits are enough to fire a losing cause—but have we told you—we have here in this house a Highlander—a Macdonald of Glencoe?” He laughed, but Jerome Caryl looked up puzzled.