"
CHAPTER XXI
"Dear me!" said Dr Drummond. "Dear me! Well! And what
does Advena Murchison say to all this?"
He and Hugh Finlay were sitting in the Doctor's study,
the pleasantest room in the house. It was lined with
standard religious philosophy, standard poets, standard
fiction, all that was standard, and nothing that was not;
and the shelves included several volumes of the Doctor's
own sermons, published in black morocco through a local
firm that did business by the subscription method, with
"Drummond" in gold letters on the back. There were more
copies of these, perhaps, than it would be quite thoughtful
to count, though a good many were annually disposed of
at the church bazaar, where the Doctor presented them
with a generous hand. A sumptuous desk, and luxurious
leather-covered armchairs furnished the room; a beautiful
little Parian copy of a famous Cupid and Psyche decorated
the mantelpiece, and betrayed the touch of pagan in the
Presbyterian. A bright fire burned in the grate, and
there was not a speck of dust anywhere.
Dr Drummond, lost in his chair, with one knee dropped on
the other, joined his fingers at the tips, and drew his
forehead into a web of wrinkles. Over it his militant
grey crest curled up; under it his eyes darted two shrewd
points of interrogation.
Pages:
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252