But it gave Donal the advantage of becoming a little
accustomed to his surroundings. The room was not large, was
wainscoted, and had a good many things on the walls: Donal noted two
or three riding whips, a fishing rod, several pairs of spurs, a
sword with golden hilt, a strange looking dagger like a flame of
fire, one or two old engravings, and what seemed a plan of the
estate. At the one window, small, with a stone mullion, the summer
sun was streaming in. The earl sat in its flood, and in the heart
of it seemed cold and bloodless. He looked about sixty years of
age, and as if he rarely or never smiled. Donal tried to imagine
what a smile would do for his face, but failed. He was not in the
least awed by the presence of the great man. What is rank to the
man who honours everything human, has no desire to look what he is
not, has nothing to conceal and nothing to compass, is fearful of no
to-morrow, and does not respect riches! Toward such ends of being
the tide of Donal's life was at least setting. So he sat neither
fidgeting nor staring, but quietly taking things in.
The earl raised himself, pushed his writing from him, turned towards
him, and said with courtesy,
"Excuse me, Mr. Grant; I wished to talk to you with the ease of duty
done."
More polite his address could not have been, but there was a
something between him and Donal that was not to be passed
a--nameless gulf of the negative.
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