“I go this evening, Pomona.”
“Ay, my lord.”
The tall wooden clock ticked off a heavy minute.
“Is my man here?” asked Lord Blantyre. “Bid him come to me, then, to help me to my room.”
His lordship’s toilet was a lengthy proceeding, for neither his strength nor his temper was equal to the strain. But it was at length accomplished, and, perfumed, shaven, clothed once again in fine linen and silk damask, wrapped in a great furred cloak, Lord Blantyre sat in the wooden armchair and drank the cordial that Pomona had prepared him.
He was panting with his exertions, his heart was fluttering, but Pomona’s recipes were cunning; in a little while he felt his pulses calm down and a glow of power return to him, and with the help of his cane and his servant he was able to advance toward the door.
“The young woman is outside, waiting to take leave of your lordship,” volunteered the sleek Craik.
His master halted, and fixed him with an arrogant eye.
“The young woman of the farm,” explained the valet, glibly, “and, knowing your lordship likes me to see to these details, I have brought a purse of gold—twenty pieces, my lord.”
He stretched out his hand and chinked the silken bag as he spoke.