Thomas was in his arm-chair, bending forward towards the fire, as she entered. His face would have been utterly colourless, save for the bluish tinge which had settled there, a tinge distinguishable even in the red blaze. Janet, keen-sighted as Margery, thought the hue had grown more ominous since she quitted him in the afternoon.
“Have you come back alone?” asked Thomas, turning towards her.
“George accompanied me as far as the ash-trees: I met him. Bessy is staying on for an hour with Lady Godolphin.”
“It’s a fine night,” he observed.
“It is,” replied Janet. “Thomas,” dropping her voice, “the Shadow is abroad.”
“Ah!”
The response was spoken in no tone of dread, or dismay; but calmly, pleasantly, with a smile upon his lips.
“It has changed its tone,” continued Janet, “and may be called grey now instead of black. I thought it had left us for good, Thomas. I suppose it had to come once more.”
“If it cared to keep up its character for consistency,” he said, his voice jesting. “If it has been the advance herald of the death of other Godolphins, why should it not herald in mine?”
“I did not expect to hear you joke about the Shadow,” observed Janet, after a pause of vexation.