de
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.
"Y