They robbed him freely in his absence, this household of his, but none could forget in his presence that he was master. “Yes, sir, yes ma’am. I ask your pardon,” said Mrs. Nutmeg. And this time there was flurry in her step as she moved away, her list slippers padding on the flags. She cast not another glance behind her; yet Ellinor felt chilled, she knew not why. Upon the dial that had marked her warm-tinted hour a grey shadow had fallen. She took up her basket of herbs. Most of the perishable things were already withering, but the dry vivacious stems of the Star-of-Comfort flaunted their glossy leaves and their tiny brilliant blossom undimmed. She noticed this, and was superstitiously glad. “I must go, cousin,” she said, “but later, if you will, I shall come and help on with the new chart.” She nodded and left him. As she moved across the courtyard towards her father’s den, the maids, hustling each other as they clacked into the dairy, looked after her with inimical stare. Then one whispered to the other, and the other nudged back, while the third surreptitiously shook her mottled fist. And as Ellinor walked on with steady step she knew it all. She knew that “the Queen of curds and cream” sat on an insecure throne; and that, were the power that had placed her there to be withdrawn from her, many eager hands would be stretched out to pull her into the mire. But upon the first step leading down to the laboratory, she turned and cast a glance back: in the deep shadow of the porch David was still standing. Out of the dark face the light eyes were watching her; when she turned, he smiled and waved his hand. And her spirits rose again as she ran down the stairs, to begin her long round of various work. She had stuck a sprig of the Euphrosinum in her kerchief; and during the whole day, whether over crucible or household book, in linen closet or still-room, each time the scent of it was wafted to her nostrils there came and went upon her lips a little secret smile, as if the fragrant thing on her bosom were but the symbol of some inner fragrance rising in little fitful storms from her heart. CHAPTER IV OPEN-EYED CONSPIRACY Let me loose thy tongue with wine: No, I love not what is new: She is of the ancient house, And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows! —TENNYSON (_Vision of Sin_). Old Giles, in the plate-room! Old Giles, butler of Bindon and confidential servant to Sir David, sunk in his wooden armchair and his head inclined till his double chin rested on his greasy stock, surveying with distasteful eye the mug of small-ale on the table before him.