CHAPTER XXXI.
MR. PERCY SHAKES HIMSELF.
It was noontide at Oakley, and a December sun was shining coldly in at the window of Mrs. Cora Arthur's dressing-room. Within that cozy room, however, all was warmth and brightness. A cheerful fire was blazing and crackling in the grate. Sitting before the fire, wrapped in a becoming dressing-gown of white cashmere, was Cora herself, looking a trifle annoyed, but remarkably well withal. Wonderfully well, considering how very ill she had been.
Lounging near her, his feet lazily outstretched toward the fire, was Lucian Davlin.
"What did you write to Percy?" he inquired, consulting his watch.
"Just what you told me; that I had something of importance to communicate, and desired him to call to-day at two," replied Cora.
"But—aren't you looking a little too well for a lady who has been so desperately ill? It won't do to arouse his suspicions, you know."
Cora crossed to her dressing-case, went carefully over her face with a puff-ball, and did some very artistic tracing in India ink under and over each eye. Then she turned toward him triumphantly. "There!" she exclaimed, "now I shall draw the curtains," suiting the action to the word, "and then, when I lie on this couch, my face will be entirely in the shadow, while from the further window there will come enough light to enable him to recognize you."
At this moment a rap was heard at the door. Cora threw herself upon the invalid's couch, and lay back among the pillows. When she had settled herself to her satisfaction, Mr. Davlin opened the door, admitting Céline Leroque.
"Monsieur Percy is below, madame," said the girl, glancing sharply at the form in the darkened corner.