We have become so much used to fine weather arrangements that the sudden change caused an upheaval. I heard much hurrying about downstairs, and when I went down to breakfast found it was laid in the hall. It was like breakfasting in a tomb, after the radiance of our meals out of doors. The front door was shut; the rain pattered on the windows; and right up against the panes, between us and the world like a great grey flannel curtain, hung the mist. It might have been some particularly odious December morning in England.
'C'est l'automne,' said Antoine, bringing in three cane chairs and putting them round the tea-table on which the breakfast was laid.
'C'est un avertissement,' said Mrs. Antoine, bringing in the coffee.
Antoine then said that he had conceived it possible that Madame and ces dames might like a small wood fire. To cheer. To enliven.
'Pray not on our account,' instantly said Mrs. Barnes to me, very earnestly. 'Dolly and I do not feel the cold at all, I assure you. Pray do not have one on our account.'
'But wouldn't it be cosy—' I began, who am like a cat about warmth.
'I would far rather you did not have one,' said Mrs. Barnes, her features puckered.
'Think of all the wood!'
'But it would only be a few logs—'
'What is there nowadays so precious as logs? And it is far, far too early to begin fires. Why, only last week it was still August. Still the dog-days.'