“How is it heated?” he asked in tragic tones.
“Very old-fashioned—no furnace or steam heat—just fire places like your dear castles in Europe,” said Gloria, which was not true, but served its purpose of making him look even more melancholy and making Gloria laugh again. She was quite the gayest person in the party and didn’t even complain of hunger.
Angela Peyton-Russell was not at the door to greet them, but a maidservant and a man servant were. Angela had read some place that it was not smart to greet one’s guests in country homes that way, so she did what she thought was the correct thing.
“Though she’s probably watching us from some point of vantage,” Gloria whispered to Ruth, as they followed the maid up a wide staircase, at the top of which she separated them, leading Ruth into what looked like the most cheerful room in the world.
“Your luggage will be up directly,” she told Ruth, “and as soon as you can you’re to come down to breakfast. Mrs. Peyton-Russell has waited it for you.”
She left at once, evidently going to attendance on Gloria, who any servant could see at a glance was the more important guest of the two. While she was waiting for her bags Ruth warmed herself before a wonderful wood fire, in front of which a blue satin-covered day bed tempted her to further rest. Through the wide windows the tops of the mountains that had looked so cold when she was driving to the house resumed the almost warm beauty that she had admired on the train. Snow always looks thus, infinitely attractive when one is safely indoors before a fire, but rather cold and lonely when one is travelling through it. She had hardly had time to remove her cloak and hat when a tap at the door announced her bags, and another maid came in to help her unpack. Ruth let her stay because she took rather kindly to being served, an inheritance from her mother, who came from Virginia, and because she might, without appearing too curious, learn something of the other guests.
“Are there many people here?” she asked. It sounded rather unsubtle after she had said it, but the maid was evidently a country girl, not like the one who had brought her up, who had probably come from the Peyton-Russell town house, and she did not seem surprised, but rather glad to talk.
“Only Mr. and Mrs. Peyton-Russell, and Miss Mayfield—but you came with her—you’re Miss Ruth Mayfield? and the foreign prince, and Mr. Riordan and Professor Pendragon, a poor sick man who’s been here almost a month, and a Miss Gilchrist, a singer. Perhaps you know her?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Ruth, almost sorry she had spoken, for the maid seemed to consider it an invitation to talk at length.
“You’ll be surprised when you meet her, Miss; she’s that odd—not at all like you other ladies. She sings beautiful—do you want to change for breakfast? I wouldn’t if I were you. The breakfast’s waiting—here, let me smooth your hair—no, I want it for practice—one day I want to be a lady’s maid—a personal maid.”