His thin flaxen mustaches were no longer pragmatically waxed and twisted into a curl:  their weak feathery ends hung meekly pendent over the querulous corners of his mouth.  If the ten or twelve weeks since his marriage had been counted by his locks, they might have reckoned as ten or twelve years.  He stood at the window mechanically picking leaves from a pot of heath placed in front of it, and drearily humming the forlorn fragment of a tune.

The prospect from the window overlooked the course of the Nith at a bend of the river a few miles above Dumfries.  Here and there, through wintry gaps in the wooded bank, broad tracts of the level cultivated valley met the eye.  Boats passed on the river, and carts plodded along the high-road on their way to Dumfries.  The sky was clear; the November sun shone as pleasantly as if the year had been younger by two good months; and the view, noted in Scotland for its bright and peaceful charm, was presented at the best which its wintry aspect could assume.  If it had been hidden in mist or drenched with rain, Mr. Noel Vanstone would, to all appearance, have found it as attractive as he found it now.  He waited at the window until he heard Louisa’s knock at the door, then turned back sullenly to the breakfast-table and told her to come in.

“Make the tea,” he said.  “I know nothing about it.  I’m left here neglected.  Nobody helps me.”

The discreet Louisa silently and submissively obeyed.

“Did your mistress leave any message for me,” he asked, “before she went away?”

“No message in particular, sir.  My mistress only said she should be too late if she waited breakfast any longer.”

“Did she say nothing else?”

“She told me at the carriage door, sir, that she would most likely be back in a week.”

“Was she in good spirits at the carriage door?”

“No, sir.  I thought my mistress seemed very anxious and uneasy.  Is there anything more I can do, sir?”

“I don’t know.  Wait a minute.”

He proceeded discontentedly with his breakfast.  Louisa waited resignedly at the door.

“I think your mistress has been in bad spirits lately,” he resumed, with a sudden outbreak of petulance.

“My mistress has not been very cheerful, sir.”

“What do you mean by not very cheerful?  Do you mean to prevaricate?  Am I nobody in the house?  Am I to be kept in the dark about everything?  Is your mistress to go away on her own affairs, and leave me at home like a child—­and am I not even to ask a question about her?  Am I to be prevaricated with by a servant?  I won’t be prevaricated with!  Not very cheerful?  What do you mean by not very cheerful?”

“I only meant that my mistress was not in good spirits, sir.”

“Why couldn’t you say it, then?  Don’t you know the value of words?  The most dreadful consequences sometimes happen from not knowing the value of words.  Did your mistress tell you she was going to London?”