“I much prefer that to punch,” said John, laughing softly.  “Have you more?”

“Thousands of them, John, thousands of them.”  She rippled forth a little laugh and continued:  “I occupy my time nowadays in making them that I may always have a great supply when we are—­that is, you know, when you—­when the time comes that you may require a great many to keep you in good humor.”  Again came the laugh, merry and clear as the tinkle of sterling silver.

She laughed again within a minute or two; but when the second laugh came, it sounded like a knell.

Dorothy delighted to be dressed in the latest fashion.  Upon this occasion she wore a skirt vast in width, of a pattern then much in vogue.  The sleeves also were preposterously large, in accordance with the custom of the times.  About her neck a beautiful white linen ruff stood out at least the eighth part of an ell.  The day had been damp and cold, and the room in which she had been sitting was chilly.  For that reason, most fortunately, she had thrown over her shoulders a wide sable cloak broad enough to enfold her many times and long enough to reach nearly to her knees:  Dorothy thus arrayed was standing in front of John’s chair.  She had just spoken the words “good humor,” when the door leading to her father’s room opened and in walked Sir George.  She and her ample skirts and broad sleeves were between John and the door.  Not one brief instant did Dorothy waste in thought.  Had she paused to put in motion the machinery of reason, John would have been lost.  Thomas sitting in Lady Crawford’s chair and Dorothy standing beside him would have told Sir George all he needed to know.  He might not have discovered John’s identity, but a rope and a tree in Bowling Green would quickly have closed the chapter of Dorothy’s mysterious love affair.  Dorothy, however, did not stop to reason nor to think.  She simply acted without preliminary thought, as the rose unfolds or as the lightning strikes.  She quietly sat down upon John’s knees, leaned closely back against him, spread out the ample folds of her skirt, threw the lower parts of her broad cape over her shoulders and across the back of the chair, and Sir John Manners was invisible to mortal eyes.

“Come in, father,” said Dorothy, in dulcet tones that should have betrayed her.

“I heard you laughing and talking,” said Sir George, “and I wondered who was with you.”

“I was talking to Madge and Malcolm who are in the other room,” replied Dorothy.

“Did not Thomas come in with fagots?” asked Sir George.

“I think he is replenishing the fire in the parlor, father, or he may have gone out.  I did not notice.  Do you want him?”

“I do not especially want him,” Sir George answered.

“When he finishes in the parlor I will tell him that you want him,” said Dorothy.

“Very well,” replied Sir George.

He returned to his room, but he did not close the door.