There was a fragrant smell of tea and the gentle hiss of boiling water from the silver kettle; it was a comfortable room, a comfortable hour; the Countess’s green eyes were soft with content like a soothed petted cat’s before a fire.
Her one companion lay back lazily on a low settee and gazed, rather vacantly, into the fire; he was a slight man with a fretful weak face, pale eyes too full, and a thin irresolute mouth.
He was handsomely dressed, and for all his unprepossessing appearance, carried an air of high lineage, wealth, position and power.
The Countess finished mixing the tea, then glanced at the man opposite; there was impatience and a slow amused scorn in her eyes; she spoke and it was in the tone of one who speaks down to his hearer.
“Cousin,” she said, “I am glad to be out of the Hielands—Kilchurn is ower damp and cold this weather.”
She handed him his tea and he put out a feeble white hand to take it.
“Ye should pull it down,” he said half-peevishly. “I canna ken how ye can live there—I’d as soon step in my grave as live in Inverary in the winter.”
His accent was very slight; he had the speech of a man who had lived abroad and learned many tongues.
The Countess Peggy smiled.
“Ye are the first Argyll, cousin,” she said, “who has disliked Inverary Castle, and as for pulling down Kilchurn, we’re no’ intending it. Jock is ower busy building up what the Macdonalds destroy.”