Beyond the fireplace were a desk and an upright press for clothes.
On the polished floor lay a worn carpet; the ceiling hung low and dark; above the mantelshelf stood another mirror, and four candles and a clock were reflected in its murky depths.
Firelight and candlelight together caught the shadow of the woman in the chair and flung it large and leaping over wall and ceiling.
At her usual time, neither a minute early nor a minute late, Madame von Arlestein entered.
Her head was swathed in black lace and her shoulders in a black shawl; her black skirts were wide and stiff and rustling. She held a length of fine white muslin that she had been embroidering for twenty years.
As always, she seated herself on the stool, and the delicate needle, guided by her wrinkled hands, flew in and out the embroidery that was beginning to be yellow with age.
Sophia Dorothea sat erect in her chair, the black hair, streaked with white as with powder, hung, still thick in the ruins of its beauty, about her shoulders. The firelight softened and warmed the sharp lines of her face and gave a sparkle to her still glorious eyes.
“Annette,” she said, “I have been thinking of Philip von Königsmarck to-night.”
The old woman looked up from her eternal sewing.
“Oh, Madame,” she answered, “you have not spoken that name for many, many years.”