A violent headache woke him in the morning and he lay thinking of the events of the preceding night. He put his hand up to his cheek to feel if the plaster was in its place. Macquean came in, according to custom, with his shaving-water, looking neither more nor less uncouth and awkward than usual. Though he shifted from foot to foot, the man had a complacency on his face that exasperated his master.
‘What did you mean by leaving the carriage last night?’ said Gilbert.
‘A’ went awa’ to Morphie,’ said Macquean.
‘And who told you to do that?’
‘Aw! a’ didna’ speir[[1]] about that. A’ just tell’t them to gang awa’ down to the doo’cot. Her ladyship was vera well pleased,’ continued Macquean, drawing his lips back from his teeth in a chastened smile.
‘Get out of the room, you damned fellow! You should get out of the house, too, if it weren’t for—for—get out, I say!’ cried Gilbert, sitting up suddenly.
Macquean put down the shaving-water and went swiftly to the door. When he had shut it behind him he stood a moment to compose himself on the door-mat.
‘He shouldna speak that way,’ he said very solemnly, wagging his head.
[[1]]Ask.