The other side of the hearth stood Jerome Caryl, his melancholy hazel eyes fixed on her.
“Mr. Caryl!” she cried and flushed scarlet.
His small mouth curved into a smile. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “I startled you—”
She recovered herself with a half-laugh. “I thought you were gone with Perseus—or abed,” she said, “and I—I have let the fire out.”
She spoke hurriedly and the color receding from her face, left her very white.
Jerome seated himself. “Miss Delia,” he said, “this is a miserable life for you.”
“Oh, no,” she answered. “No.”
“Yes,” he insisted gently. “For a woman and a lady, a miserable life; you are very heroic, Miss Delia, to give up so much for King James.”
“You forget, Mr. Caryl, that I have no alternative.” She smiled frankly at him. “And I am a born plotter,” she added, “and sanguine—so content, Mr. Caryl.”
A silence fell between them; she turned her head away and fell to twisting her fingers together in her lap; he could see her profile in pure strong lines against the background of shadows, the curve of her throat into the lace collar and the loosened knot of dull brown curls in her neck; he studied her with gentle melancholy eyes and his mouth drooped with lines of musing. Presently the girl spoke, shaking off the spell of the silence with an effort.