As this late meal was to serve as both dinner and supper for the small household on this day of bustle, they sat rather long at the table, not leaving it, in fact, until the short tallow candles that had been placed upon it began to burn low in their sockets.
Then David Lindsay and Gloria withdrew from the dining-room and went into the parlor on the opposite side of the hall.
There, also, a fine fire was burning, and a table was drawn up before the hearth, flanked by two straight-backed, chip-bottomed chairs.
“What would Miss Agrippina de Crespigney say, if she could have seen her niece, the ‘Countess Gloria,’ sitting down at the table with her housekeeper?” inquired David Lindsay, with a smile, as they seated themselves near the fire.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, drop that! I never was intended for a fine lady, David Lindsay—never!—much less for a countess! I love people, David Lindsay. I never want to keep them at a distance. I want to draw them closer to me,” she murmured, in a tender tone, with her eyes fixed dreamily upon the fire.
“Then love me, draw me nearer to you, and my life’s devotion shall be yours,” was in his heart and almost on his lips to say; but he put away the selfish thought and continued silent.
It was growing late, and they were both very tired.
Gloria was the first to rise.
“Good-night, David Lindsay,” she said as she took one of the tallow candles from the chimney shelf to light her steps.
“Good-night,” he answered, in gentle tones.