"Harriet, I am freezing rapidly: will you ring the bell, as you are so near it, and let us get some more coals? Tynon seems to think we require none."
Harriet withdraws her hand reluctantly from where it is lying, warm and perdu, beneath the silky Skye snoozing on her lap, and does as she is bidden.
It is terribly cold. Suddenly, and without the usual warning, winter has come upon us. We sit shivering around the fire, and abuse unceasingly the roaring logs because they won't roar faster.
Already my guests talk of leaving; already countless invitations to spend the coming Christmas in the homes of others have reached Marmaduke and me. Indeed, Harriet and Bebe—whose mother does not return to England until the coming spring—will take no refusal.
Dora's marriage is arranged to come off about the middle of the ensuing month; and even now the illustrious personage who deigned to make me presentable on my entrance into fashionable life is busying herself about the trousseau. It seems to me a dreary month in which to celebrate a wedding, but Sir George and Dora do not see it in this light, and talk gayly of all the delights to be called from a winter in Rome.
"Where is Lady Blanche?" I ask, suddenly awakening to the fact that for some hours I have not seen her.
"She complained of a headache shortly after the departure of the shooting-party," says Dora, who is as usual tatting, "and went to her own room."
"Dear me! I hope it is nothing serious," I say, anxiously, my conscience accusing me of some slight neglect, "I thought she did look rather pale when I met her in the hall."
"I don't think you need be uneasy, dear," remarks Harriet, mildly, with a suspicious twinkle in her eyes; "Blanche's headaches never come to anything. Probably she will be quite herself again by dinner-time."
"Perhaps she felt a little dull—when the gentlemen were gone," suggests dear Dora, very innocently, without raising her white lids.