"It wasn't a bit too cold. I love it." Claudia shook her head. "I don't want any tea until my hands can hold the cup, though. They are cold." With her foot on the fender, she held out first one hand and then the other to the blazing fire and laughed in Dorothea's wide-opened eyes. "What is it, Madam Hostess? Is anything the matter with me?"
"Your cheeks look like they're painted. They didn't when you went out."
"Do they?" Claudia put her hands to her face. "The wind did it." Taking off her hat, she laid it on the table, loosened the hair on her temples, and sat down on the tapestried footstool near the hearth. "I'll have some tea now, please. Are there any sandwiches? I'm starving. Where's your mother, Dorothea?"
"Sick. Got a headache. I'm to pour tea, unless you'd rather." She got up reluctantly. "Would you?"
"Indeed I wouldn't." Claudia waved her back. "You suit that table beautifully. When you're a real grown-up lady you won't leave out anything; but this time you forgot the sugar."
"Did I? I was thinking of something else, I guess." Two lumps were put in the cup Laine handed her. "Where did you all go this afternoon?"
Claudia looked at Laine. "I don't know the names of the places around here. Where did we go?"
"We went—" Laine put his cup on the table and, drawing a chair closer to the fire, sat down. "I've forgotten the name of the road."
"Forgotten!" Dorothea stopped the rattling of the spoons. "You told me once you knew all the roads within twenty miles of New York in the pitch-dark. I think it's very funny you don't know where you've been. You couldn't have been looking much."
"We didn't look at all. It was too cold—" Laine put another log on the fire—"the roads were frozen, and to keep the horses from slipping was all we could attend to."