“Frederika Elizabeth! She’s seen the Pierson!”
“Hoh! Has she?” The brisk footsteps approached and the door was closed. The dimly shining mysteries of the room moved about Miriam, the outside darkness flowing up to the windows moved away as the tall dressing-gowned figure lowered the thin drab loosely rattling Venetian blinds; the light seemed to go up and distant objects became more visible; the crowded bookshelf the dark littered table under it, the empty table pushed against the wall near the window—the bamboo bookshelf between the windows above a square mystery draped to the ground with a table cover—the little sofa behind Mag’s chair, the little pictures, cattle gazing out across a bridge of snow, cattish complacent sweepy women. Albert...? Moore? the framed photographs of Dickens and Irving, the litter on the serge draped mantelpiece in front of the mirror of the bamboo overmantel, silver candlesticks, photographs of German women and Canon Wilberforce ... all the riches of comfortable life.
“You are late.”
“Yes I am fear-fully late.”
“Why are you late Frederika Elizabeth von Bohlen?”
The powerful rounded square figure was in the leather armchair opposite the blaze, strongly moulded brown knickered black stockinged legs comfortably crossed stuck firmly out between the heavy soft folds of a grey flannel dressing gown. The shoes had gone, grey woollen bedroom slippers blurred all but the shapely small ankles. Mag was lighting another cigarette, von Bohlen was not doing needlework, the room settled suddenly to its best rich exciting blur.
“Tonight I must smoke or die.”
“Must you, my dear.”
“Why.”
“To-nate,—a, ay must smoke—a, or daye.”