“Poor old chap!” said Dick. “It’s about the worst thing he could have done for himself, and it’s not very much good to us. The Great Great One can scarcely be expected to welcome such a slap in the face as that. His own nominee, sent to carry out his very own policy, recommending its reversal, not because his views have changed, but simply because facts are against him!”
They sat talking round the brazier in the dusk for some time, until there was a footstep outside, and Beltring pushed aside the screen and entered. He had a paper in his hand.
“Why, you are all in the dark, Mrs North!” he said. “Never mind, I can tell you the great news. The Commissioner has just had a telegram that the rumour of the Viceroy’s resignation is true. Lord Torvalvin is coming out instead.”
“Torvalvin!” cried Dick. “Then the frontier’s safe.”
“And you will be Warden of the Marches still,” said Flora.
“That seems to make me out a sort of Vicar of Bray,” grumbled Dick.
“It’s only Flora’s poetical way of speaking,” said Georgia. “I’m sure it sounds much better to talk of keeping the marches than of running the frontier.”
“Yes,” said Flora. “I was thinking of the inscription in Sir Walter Scott’s hall at Abbotsford, about the ‘men wha keepit the marchys in the old tyme for the Kynge. Trewe men war they in their tyme, and in their defence God them defendyt.’”
“I like that,” said Georgia softly.
“Well,” said Dick, “it’s all very well for me, but Torvalvin’s coming out will be a fearful blow for Burgrave. I suppose he will feel bound to resign, for I certainly don’t see how they can work together. Did he seem much cut up, Beltring?”