It may be the gathering gloom of evening, or it may be the darker gloom within herself, but a shade is on my Lady’s face, as if she thought, “I would he were!”
“ Mr. Tulkinghorn,” says Sir Leicester, “is always welcome here and always discreet wheresoever he is. A very valuable person, and deservedly respected.”
The debilitated cousin supposes he is “ ’normously rich fler.”
“He has a stake in the country,” says Sir Leicester, “I have no doubt. He is, of course, handsomely paid, and he associates almost on a footing of equality with the highest society.”
Everybody starts. For a gun is fired close by.
“Good gracious, what’s that?” cries Volumnia with her little withered scream.
“A rat,” says my Lady. “And they have shot him.”
Enter Mr. Tulkinghorn, followed by Mercuries with lamps and candles.
“No, no,” says Sir Leicester, “I think not. My Lady, do you object to the twilight?”
On the contrary, my Lady prefers it.
“Volumnia?”
Oh! Nothing is so delicious to Volumnia as to sit and talk in the dark.
“Then take them away,” says Sir Leicester. “Tulkinghorn, I beg your pardon. How do you do?”
Mr. Tulkinghorn with his usual leisurely ease advances, renders his passing homage to my Lady, shakes Sir Leicester’s hand, and subsides