"Are you quite alone, Laura?" she asked, looking in.
"Quite alone."
A maid was busy unweaving a splendid pyramid of chestnut plaits which had crowned the head of her mistress; but she of course counted for nothing, and could be dismissed at any moment.
"And there will not be half-a-dozen people coming in to gossip?" Lady Geraldine asked in rather a fretful tone, as she flung herself into an arm-chair near the dressing-table.
"Not a soul; I have wished every one good-night. I was rather tired, to tell the truth, and not inclined for talk. But of course I am always glad of a chat with you, Geraldine.—You may go, Parker; I can finish my hair myself."
The maid retired, as quietly as some attendant spirit.
Lady Laura took up a big ivory brush and began smoothing the long chestnut locks in a meditative way, waiting for her sister to speak. But Lady Geraldine seemed scarcely in the mood for lively conversation; her fingers were twisting themselves in and out upon the arm of her chair in a nervous way, and her face had a thoughtful, not to say moody, expression.
Her sister watched her for some minutes silently.
"What is the matter, Geraldine?" she inquired at last. "I can see there is something wrong."
"There is very much that is wrong," the other answered with a kind of suppressed vehemence. "Upon my word, Laura, I believe it is your destiny to stand in my light at every stage of my life, or you would scarcely have happened to have planted that girl here just at this particular time."