Before the fireplace were two leather chairs and a great leather couch. At each end of the couch stood lighted lamps, shaded to a deep-amber glow.
The lackey returned.
"Her ladyship waits for you in her room, sir."
Leighton nodded, and led Lewis down a short hall. The library had been dark, the hall was darker. Lewis felt depressed. He heard his father knock on a door and then open it. Lewis caught his breath.
The door had opened on a little realm of light. Fresh blue and white cretonnes and chintzes met his unaccustomed eyes; straight chairs, easy-chairs, and deep, low comfy chairs; airy tables, the preposterously slender legs of which looked frail and were not; books, paper-backed, and gay magazines; a wondrous, limpid cheval-glass.
Across the farther side of the room was a very wide window. Through its slender gothic panes one saw a walled lawn and a single elm. Beside the window and half turned toward it, so that the light fell across her face, sat the woman of the portrait.
"How do!" she cried gaily to Leighton, and held out her hand. She did not rise.
"H lne," said Leighton, "your room's so cursedly feminine that it's like an assault for a man to enter it."
"I can't give you credit for that, Glen," said the lady, laughing.
"You've had a year to think it up. Where have you been? That's right.
Sit down, light up, and talk."
Leighton nodded over his shoulder at Lewis.