Emmeline was seventeen years old, and a pretty girl. She had childishly rounded cheeks, the bright colouring of which did not fade under fatigue; only the soft dark eyes, usually dancing with fun, had grown a trifle heavy. Her dainty little hands held a duster, for she had just finished arranging the last shelves of unpacked books.
"And now I really don't think there is anything more to be done," sighed Emmeline.
"Talking to yourself, Em?" asked a gentle voice.
Emmeline's face flashed into immediate brightness, as she turned towards a pale-faced lady, fragile and sweet-looking.
"O mother! I didn't hear you come in. Yes, I believe I was doing what that maid called 'siloloquising.' Isn't it a horrid day? Come and look-out."
"Should we not be better repaid if we studied the fire instead?"
"Then you'll sit down in this arm-chair—" running to pull it forward. "And here is a stool—and here is a cushion. I'll tuck my duster away—and then we can be cosy. So my father has gone out?"
"He wanted to take you; but I thought it best not, as you have a cold, and he meant to go some distance."
"Oh, my cold is nothing. I wish you had told me." Emmeline knelt on the rug looking thoughtfully at a purple flame. "Mother, Sir Cyril has never been—after all!"
"No."