She remembered that Mrs. Davenant had showed her a bathroom communicating by a door from her own room, and then—with her cold water was as necessary as air—went and had her bath; then she dressed herself, and, opening her door, went downstairs.
To her amazement, all the house seemed wrapped in slumber.
At home, at the cottage at Warden, Gideon and all of them were up with the lark, and life began with the morning sun.
She stole into the drawing-room, and, unfastening the shutters with some little difficulty, opened the window and leaned out to breathe the fresh air; but it seemed as if the air was asleep, too, or, in its journey from the country, had lost itself in the maze of houses, and failed to reach Walmington Square.
Una looked out dreamily, wondering who and what sort of people lived in the huge blocks of dwellings that surrounded her, and wondered, faintly, whether she could be looking at the spot where Jack Newcombe dwelt.
She could not guess that Jack had not come back from Hurst Leigh yet, but was waiting for the squire’s funeral.
Instinctively she turned to the table and took up the album and went back to the window with the book open at the page which contained Jack’s portrait.
How beautiful the face was! And yet, she thought, with a warm glow in her eyes, that she had seen it look still more beautiful, as she had looked down at it the morning he lay sleeping at her feet.
Presently a servant came into the room, and startled at the sight of the white figure by the window, uttered an exclamation.
“Good-morning,” said Una.