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One afternoon Howard sauntered into Stafford's room and found him sitting in his easy-chair with a book turned face downwards on his knee, and his pipe in his mouth.
She was so content with the aspect of affairs in this direction that it did not long detain her thoughts, and she found herself pondering more on the disclosure Eugene had made of Stafford's feelings than on his revelation of his own. It is difficult, without the aid of subtle distinctions, to say exactly what degree of surprise she felt at the news.
Once more Charles had to call a Parliament; two met in 1640 the Short Parliament, which lasted but three weeks, and the Long, which outlasted Charles. It met to pronounce Stafford's doom; and his plot with the army detected, Charles basely sacrificed his loyal servitor, his own kingly word, to fears for the queen's safety; no act weighed heavier on him afterward.
There was no need for an inquest; the great physician who had been in attendance, quite vainly, was prepared to certify to the cause of death, and Stafford's feelings were spared thus far.
He could see her bosom heaving under the half-open fur cloak, felt her hand close for an instant on his arm. "Do you wish me to say 'Yes'?" she asked in a low voice. The red flooded Stafford's face for a moment, and his eyes fell under her fixed regard. "What answer does one generally hope for when one puts such a question?" he said, trying to smile.
Sir Stephen laid his hand upon Stafford's broad shoulder. "Thank you, my boy!" he said. "You are always good to me! Always! God bless you, Staff!" His voice was husky, there was a moisture in his eyes which almost made Stafford's grow dim; then, with a swift return to his usual alert and sanguine manner, Sir Stephen withdrew his hands and swung round.
He looked directly into Stafford's eyes as the red glow of the cigar flamed and faded between the two heads so close together, and in his own eyes there was the same point of smiling ironic cruelty that Isabel had read in them the same as Stafford himself had read in them not so many years ago. But apparently Stafford read nothing in them now. "Sit down, won't you? you've had a fagging day."
It would be easy to go farther and show that among the leading Parliamentary statesmen there were gay and witty debauchees, that Harry Marten deserved the epithet with which Cromwell saluted him, that Pym succeeded to the regards of Stafford's bewitching mistress, that Warwick was truly, as Clarendon describes him, a profuse and generous profligate, tolerated by the Puritans for the sake of his earldom and his bounty, at a time when bounty was convenient and peers scarce.
Stafford tried to find some phrase which would conceal his lack of appreciation; and his father, as if he saw what was passing through Stafford's mind, went on quickly but smoothly: "Yes, I see. It is too fine and ornamental. But I don't think you'll find that the people who are coming here tomorrow will agree with you. I may not know much about art and taste, but I know my world. Stafford Mr.
"Not that I admire that colour myself; I'm gone on black 'air." He glanced insinuatingly at Ida's. When the interval expired, Sir Stephen and Stafford resumed their seat, and, with a sigh of relief, Ida tried to listen to the music; but she could hear Stafford's voice through it, and was obliged to shut her eyes that she might not see him.
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