Miss Bliss leaned forward and poked the fire, once more revealing the golden string. The count looked at it with a faint arrested interest. I was depressed, but conventions are instinctive, and I said sternly:
“Miss Bliss, let the count poke the fire.”
The count poked and Miss Bliss slipped to the floor, and sitting cross-legged, comfortably warmed her back.
The count was gone when Mrs. Bushey entered. Mrs. Bushey says she understands music even as she does physical culture.
“It was a frost,” she explained, dropping on the end of the sofa.
“I know that,” I answered, “the paper this morning said the thermometer was twenty-two degrees.”
“Not that kind of a frost, a theatrical frost for her. She hasn’t got the quality.”
“No thrill,” murmured Miss Bliss, and no men being present, stretched out her feet and legs in worn slippers and threadbare stockings to the blaze.
I fought against my depression—Mrs. Bushey did not like Bonaventura.
“She hasn’t got the equipment,” said Mrs. Bushey with a sagacious air. Her eye roamed about the room and lighted on Miss Bliss’ legs. “Are you cold?” she asked, as if amazed.