On the dining-room sideboard, from the remains of dinner, she found
and furtively abstracted what she needed - best part of a roast
chicken, a small loaf and a half-flask of Collares. Mullins, the
butler, would no doubt be exercised presently when he discovered
the abstraction. Let him blame one of the footmen, Sir Terence's
orderly, or the cat. It mattered nothing to Lady O'Moy.
Having devoured the food and consumed the wine, Richard's exhaustion
assumed the form of a lethargic torpor. To sleep was now his
overmastering desire. She fetched him rugs and pillows, and he
made himself a couch upon the floor. She had demurred, of course,
when he himself had suggested this. She could not conceive of any
one sleeping anywhere but in a bed. But Dick made short work of
that illusion.
"Haven't I been in hiding for the last six weeks?" he asked her.
"And haven't I been thankful to sleep in a ditch? And wasn't I
campaigning before that? I tell you I couldn't sleep in a bed.
It's a habit I've lost entirely."
Convinced, she gave way.
"We'll talk to-morrow, Una," he promised her, as he stretched
himself luxuriously upon that hard couch. "But meanwhile, on your
life, not a word to any one.
Pages:
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120