"You are too cold to wait about. We have only a couple of miles to do now."
They passed a frozen lake, then climbed a steep hill, and turned in at some lodge gates, up a long avenue of chestnuts, and finally drew up before a sombre old grey stone building. It was too dark to distinguish much. When Jean found her feet, she could hardly stand, and the sudden blaze and warmth of a richly lighted square hall, dazzled and confused her. She was ushered into the drawing-room, where two ladies sat over their tea by the fire. The elder of these came forward.
"Miss Desmond, I expect? I am so sorry you have had such a cold drive. Come to the fire."
She was a tall, commanding-looking woman, handsome still, though she was no longer young, but her expression was cold, almost stern, and her face, in repose, seemed like a block of stone.
Her companion was her niece, by name Meta Worth. She was a girl of Jean's own age, and was a pretty, graceful little thing.
"Isn't Leslie coming in?" she asked.
"No," Mrs. Gordon replied. "He has sent a message in to say that he must get back. I wish I could have sent the brougham for you, Miss Desmond, but the horses are fresh, and I do not like the groom to drive them. My coachman is laid up with a shocking cold."
"It did not matter at all, thank you," said Jean. "Though it was very cold, we had one lovely picture to compensate for it—the sun setting behind some pine-woods."
"Did it warm you up?" asked Meta.
Jean looked straight at her, then laughed.