"The fire is out," she said, looking at the ashes in the grate, "and I am cold—cold."
"Shall I start it?" asked Miss Ramsey, a little timidly, as she tugged awkwardly at her gloves, embarrassed by their length.
Mariana laughed absently.
"Start it? Why should you?" she questioned. "There are servants—or there ought to be—but no, I'll go up-stairs."
She went into the hall, and Miss Ramsey followed her. On the second landing they entered a large room, the floor of which was spread with white fur rugs, warmed by the reddish lights and shadows from an open fire.
Mariana crossed to the fire, and, drawing off her gloves, held her hands to the flames. There was a strained look in her eyes, as if she had not awaked to her surroundings.
Miss Ramsey raised the wick of the lamp, yawned behind her hand, and came to where Mariana was standing.
"Are you tired?" she asked. "The opera was very long."
Mariana started and looked at her.
"You poor little thing," she said. "It half killed you. No, don't go. Sit down for a moment. I want to talk to you."