The door from the bedroom opened and Mrs. Admaston entered.
She was a slim, girlish-looking woman, with a cascade of long dark hair falling over her shoulders.
The face was small, the complexion of it rose-brown, the eyes dark wells of laughing light, the lips twin rosebuds with a sense of humour.
She was wearing a long wrap, half tea-gown, half dressing-gown, of topaz-coloured silk, and round her slender waist was a cord of light-blue and gold threads ending in two large tassels of gold.
Now there was something half tired, half petulant, and wholly puzzled about her face as she swept into the room.
"It's no use," she said in a rippling musical voice; "it isn't a bit of use, Pauline! I can't go to sleep. In fact, I'm not in the least sleepy."
She looked round the room and sighed.
"What a barn of a place this is!" she said. "I hate those green curtains. They're so horribly conscious of the colour scheme. And then the topaz-shaded lights over the lamps—it's all so dreadfully wearing. And in my room, too, Pauline, it's simply horrid. It reminds me of a sarcophagus, or a mausoleum, or some appalling place like that. And the bed is too low! I don't think much of this room, but after all it's nicer in here."
She sank down with a sigh into an arm-chair.
"Yes," she said once more, "it really is much nicer in here. Make me cosy, Pauline, and do my hair."