A mass of coals crackled in the big fireplace on the top floor, and a tall man in the resplendent livery of a footman was engaged in poking them up when the Marchioness entered.
"Bitterly cold, isn't it, Moody?" inquired she, approaching with stately tread, her lorgnon lifted.
"It is, my lady,—extremely nawsty," replied Moody. "The trams are a bit off, or I should 'ave 'ad the coals going 'alf an hour sooner than—Ahem! They call it a blizzard, my lady."
"I know, thank you, Moody."
"Thank you, my lady," and he moved stiffly off in the direction of the foyer.
The Marchioness languidly selected a magazine from the litter of periodicals on the table. It was La Figaro, and of recent date. There were magazines from every capital in Europe on that long and time-worn table.
A warm, soft light filled the room, shed by antique lanthorns and wall-lamps that gave forth no cruel glare. Standing beside the table, the Marchioness was a remarkable picture. The slight, drooping figure of the woman with the dust-cloth and creaking knees had been transformed, like Cinderella, into a fairly regal creature attired in one of the most fetching costumes ever turned out by the rapacious Deborah, of the first floor front!
The foyer curtains parted, revealing the plump, venerable figure of a butler who would have done credit to the lordliest house in all England.
"Lady Jane Thorne," he announced, and a slim, radiant young person entered the room, and swiftly approached the smiling Marchioness.