Devereux rose early and less than rested. He curtly refused all suggestions of breakfast, except for a tankard of ale, which he rapidly tossed off. Now he was dressing, but the process was not proceeding in its usual unharried way.He stood, glowering, before the mirror in his dressing-room. On the floor beside him lay a growing pile of creased neckcloths. Impassively, Dowsett handed him another.“And you need not,” Mr. Devereux said quite unfairly, “scowl at me like that, Dowsett. A man on his way to propose is entitled to a little nervousness.”The valet’s expression did not change. Not by the faintest flicker of an eyelid did Dowsett betray his interest in that pretty little trinket leaning against the studbox. “R and C” it said, didn’t it?With a muttered imprecation, Richard flung away another spoiled cravat. “It is an important decision, after all,” he said through gritted teeth. “The French look upon these things more correctly. We are too romantical, too apt to be carried away by our emotions.”Stolidly, the valet passed over another rectangle of starched muslin.“Yes, we should look at marriage more rationally, as an alliance of families, and not clutter up matters with nonsense about love.
