I awoke with a little shiver, pretended to myself that I had never stopped reading, gave up the pretence, pushed back my chair from the table, rose, and turned to the fire behind me.
In my old leather arm-chair sat Jenny Driver.
She wore a black evening dress, with a cloak of brown fur thrown open in front—both, no doubt, new acquisitions. The fire had died down to a small heap of bright red embers. When first I saw her, she was crouching close over it—the night was chilly—and her face was red with its glow.
"Miss Driver! I—I'm afraid I've been asleep," I stammered. "Have you been here long?"
She glanced at the clock; it was half-past ten. "About twenty minutes. I've had a good look round—at your room, and your books, and that queer picture which seems to have sent you to sleep. Your room's very comfortable."
"Yes, it's a jolly little room," I agreed. "But what——?"
"And I've had a good look at you, too," she continued. "Do you know, Mr. Austin, you're really rather handsome?"
"I daresay I look my best by lamplight," I suggested, smiling.
"No, really I think you are—in the thin ascetic style. I like that—anyhow for a change. Well, I wanted a word with you, so I waited till Chat went to bed, and then slipped down."
It was on the tip of my tongue to observe that it was rather late; but a smile on Jenny's lips somehow informed me that she expected just such an objection. So I said nothing.