Adolfo had gone an hour before, and she had been in her own room meanwhile; but she had not taken off her white lace attire, or loosened the braids of her hair. Margaret too was fully dressed.
"What have you been doing?" Garda demanded, suspiciously, as she looked at her. "Not crying?"
"I think I have forgotten how to cry."
"Well, your eyes are dry," Garda admitted. She closed the door, then went to one of the windows and looked out. There had been a heavy rain during the evening, and the air was much cooler; it was very dark. She closed the shutters of all the three windows and fastened them. "It's so gloomy out there! Pine cones? What luck! we'll have a fire."
"Garda—we shall melt!"
"No, the room is too large." She piled the cones on the hearth and set fire to them; in an instant the blaze flared out and lighted up all the dusky corners. "That's better. Only one poor miserable little candle?" And she proceeded to light four others that stood about here and there.
"Are you preparing for a ball?"
"I am preparing for a talk. I'm lonely to-night, Margaret, and I can't bear to feel lonely; how long may I stay? Are you sure you haven't got to go and do something?—say good-night to Mr. Harold, for instance?"
"He has been asleep these two hours. He always has one of his men in the room with him."
"Yes, I know. But why haven't you undressed, then, all this time?" Garda went on, with returning suspicion.