Richard, perched on the table's edge, swung his shapely legs idly backwards and forwards and cogitated upon a pretext to call for a morning draught of last October's ale.
Ruth completed her task with the roses and turned her eyes upon her brother.
"You are not looking well, Richard," she said, which was true enough, for much hard drinking was beginning to set its stamp on Richard, and young as he was, his insipidly fair face began to display a bloatedness that was exceedingly unhealthy.
"Oh, I am well enough," he answered almost peevishly, for these allusions to his looks were becoming more frequent than he savoured.
"Gad!" cried Sir Rowland's deep voice, "you'll need to be well.

I have work for you to-morrow, Dick." Dick did not appear to share his enthusiasm.

"I am sick of the work you discover for us, Rowland," he answered ungraciously.
But Blake showed no resentment.

"Maybe you'll find the present task more to your taste.

If it's deeds of derring-do you pine for, I am the man to satisfy you." He smiled grimly, his bold grey eyes glancing across at Ruth, who was observing him, listening.
Richard sneered, but offered him no encouragement to proceed.
"I see," said Blake, "that I shall have to tell you the whole story before you'll credit me.