"Yes," said Celia. "I had been calling on a friend."
"A friend," repeated Lady Heyton, raising her brows, languidly. "Do you mean the woman with the baby? I thought she looked quite a common, ordinary sort of person."
"I should scarcely call Susie common," said Celia, with a smile. "I like her very much."
"Do you? How quaint! This fire is very jolly. Do you always have one here?" asked her ladyship, as if her volatile mind had forgotten the last subject of the conversation.
Celia told her that the fire was lit every evening, and Lady Heyton, rising with a yawn, remarked that she should often drop in for a warm; the rest of the house seemed to her chilly. Celia gave the required invitation, and Lady Heyton stood looking about her vacantly, and as if she were waiting for the volition to go.
"I say; do tell me your name?" she said, languidly.
Celia told her.
"Awfully pretty name. Mine's Miriam; ridiculously unsuitable, don't you think? So hard and cold; and I'm anything but that. Pity one can't choose one's own name! Do you mind if I call you 'Celia'? 'Miss Grant' is so stiff."
"Oh, not at all," said Celia.
"Thanks very much. What's that?" she asked, starting, her hand going to her bosom, her brows coming together nervously.