His Grace of Andover made a sign to the footmen, and with a sinking heart Diana watched them leave the room, discreetly closing the door behind them. She affected to eat a peach, skinning it with fingers that were stiff and wooden. Tracy leaned back in his chair, surveying her through half-shut eyelids. He watched her eat her peach and rise to her feet, standing with her hand on the back of the high, carved chair. She addressed him nervously and with would-be lightness.
“Well, sir, I have eaten, and I protest I am fatigued. Pray have the goodness to conduct me to your housekeeper.”
“My dear,” he drawled, “nothing would give me greater pleasure—always supposing that I possessed one.”
She raised her eyebrows haughtily.
“I presume you have at least a maidservant,” she inquired. “If I am to remain here, I would retire.”
“You shall, child, all in good time. But do not be in a hurry to deprive me of your fair company.” He rose as he spoke, and taking her hand, led her dumbly to a low-backed settee at the other end of the great room.
“If you have aught to say to me, your Grace, I beg that you will reserve it until to-morrow. I am not in the humour to-night.”
He laughed at her.
“Still so cold, child?”
“I am not like to be different, sir.”
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