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"All right," said the hostess, "I'll stay too--there are plenty
without me--and we'll have a drive later on."
She passed to her breakfast-table, and Deb rose and went upstairs, to
see what she could find to attend to in the way of pressing
correspondence.
She had the status of a married lady in this great house, as
everywhere; that is to say, a sitting-room of her own--a very cosy
place between tea and the dressing-bell. Just now, however, Rosalie was
busy in it. The maid offered to retire to the adjoining bed-chamber,
but Deb said, "Oh, never mind; go on," and gathering her blotting-book
and papers, went downstairs again to make herself comfortable in the
library. She loved a good library to sit in, and generally found
privacy therein at this time of day.
The library here was magnificent in stately comfort--books in
thousands, busts, old masters, muffling Turkey carpets, a great,
bright, still fire, and armchairs so big and soft that it was strange
they could stand empty. She drew up one of them and sat awhile,
toasting her feet and turning precious leaves--it was the interval
covered by Claud's breakfast--and then set herself to the business she
was supposed to be engaged in.
"Dear Francie,--I tried at half-a-dozen shops to match your Chinese
satin, but nowhere could I get the exact shade. If you like I will try
again when I go back to town, but if I were you I would not attempt to
make it go with any modern stuff, which could not help looking crude
beside it; I would have quite another material and colour. What do you
stay to--"
She paused reflectively, the tip of her pen-handle between her teeth,
her eyes fixed absently upon the green park beyond the open window,
composing a gorgeous costume in her mind. Before she could even
decide whether to advise a ball-dress with CREPE DE CHINE, or a
tea-gown with Oriental cashmere, one of the noiseless library doors
swung back, and a man came in. Without noticing her still figure, he
strolled over to a certain shelf, opened a book that he wanted, and
stood, with his back to her, turning over the leaves.
So he had not gone with the men. How horrid! And what a nuisance that
he should find her here! Well, she was not going to put herself out for
him. She lowered her pen softly, and began to scratch the paper, over
which she bent absorbedly. He turned round. "Oh, I beg your pardon--"
"Oh, it's you, Claud! Good morning! Why, I thought you would be out
with the guns this fine day."
"Fine day, do you call it? There's a wind like a knife. And you sit
here with the window wide open--"
He marched towards it, and shut it with violence. It was a great glass
door between stone mullions. Above it and two fellow-sheets of
glittering transparency, three coats of many quarterings enriched the
colour-scheme of the stately room. She watched him with the beginning
of a smile upon her lips. The humour of the situation appealed to her.
"I like an open window," she remarked mildly. "If you remember, I
always did."
He came towards her, looking at her gloomily, looking himself thin and
grey and shivery--but always like a prince.
"You have more flesh to keep you warm than I have," said he, quite
roughly.
"Thank you!" She bridled and flushed. Her massive figure, for a
woman of her years, was perfect; but of course she was as sensitive as
the well-proportioned female always is to the suspicion that she was
too fat. "You have not lost the art of paying graceful compliments."
"I meant it for one," said he, replying to her scoffing tone. "You put
me to shame, Deb, with your vigour and youthfulness. I know how old you
are, and you don't look it by ten years. And you are a beauty still,
let me tell you. It may not be a graceful compliment, but at least it
is sincere. Even these girls here--"
"Nonsense about beauty--at my time of life," she broke in; but she
smiled behind her frown, and forgave him his remark about her flesh.
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Cambridge, Ada, 1844-1926 - Sisters