"Frankly, Your Grace," said he, "I like it not at all." Fletcher looked up sharply, his clear intelligent eyes full upon Wilding's calm face, his countenance expressing as little as did Wilding's.

Ferguson seemed slightly taken aback.

Grey's thick lips were twisted in a sneering smile.
"Faith," said the latter with elaborate sarcasm, "in that case it only remains for us to ship again, heave anchor, and back to Holland." "It is what I should advise," said Wilding slowly and quietly, "if I thought there was a chance of my advice being taken." He had a calm, almost apathetic way of uttering startling things which rendered them doubly startling.

The sneer seemed to freeze on Lord Grey's lips; Fletcher continued to stare, but his eyes had grown more round; Ferguson scowled darkly.

The Duke's boyish face--it was still very youthful despite his six-and-thirty years--expressed a wondering consternation.
He looked at Wilding, and from Wilding to the others, and his glance seemed to entreat them to suggest an answer to him.