“Come in,” answered Mr. Ravenor, without looking up, or even ceasing his writing, for I could hear the broad quill dashing away without a pause over the notepaper.
A servant threw open the door and announced “Lady Silchester,” and a tall woman, wrapped from head to foot in dark brown furs, swept past him and entered the room.
A single glance at the slim, majestic figure, and at the classical outline of her face, told me who she was and told me rightly. It was Mr. Ravenor’s sister.
Mr. Ravenor rose and, without putting his pen down, welcomed Lady Silchester with cold, frigid courtesy, which she seemed determined, however, not to notice.
“Quite an unexpected visit, this, isn’t it?” she exclaimed, sinking into an easy chair before the fire with a little shiver. “I never was so cold! These autumn mists are awful, and I’ve had a twelve-mile drive. What a dreary room you have made of this!” she added, looking round with a little shrug of her shoulders and putting her hands farther into her muff. “How can you sit here in this ghostly light with only one lamp—and such a fire, too?”
He smiled grimly, but it was not a smile which heralded any increase of geniality in his manner.
“I am not in the habit of receiving ladies here,” he remarked, “and I did not expect you. Where have you come from? I thought you were in Rome.”
She shook her head.
“I wish we were. We came back last week and I went straight down to the Cedars—Tom’s place at Melton, you know. I don’t think I’ve been warm since I landed in England. Just now I’m nearly frozen to death.”
“I think you would find one of the rooms in the other wing more comfortable,” he said, after a short pause; “besides which I am engaged at present. You dine here, of course?”