She sat so, very still, with the firelight glowing on her soft face, till she was disturbed by the great doors being opened; she turned in her seat with a little shrinking movement.
The servant was ushering in a lady, who hesitated on the threshold and said something in a low voice to the man who answered with a bow and a stately request for her to be seated.
Upon that the lady entered, and the servant left, closing the door.
Lady Dalrymple looked at the unexpected visitor timidly and rose with an instinctive courtliness. The lady had paused in the center of the room; the snow lay over her dark habit and in the full curls of her hair.
“I pray you do not let me trouble you,” she said in a manner, unnaturally quiet and composed. “My business, madam, is with Sir John Dalrymple—I have been asked to await him here.”
“Will you not sit down,” said Lady Dalrymple gently. “I do not know your name, but you are very welcome.”
She moved her seat from the fire and in a winning way indicated a chair opposite; but the coldness of the other’s face and voice did not relax.
“My name is Delia Featherstonehaugh,” she said. “And I am neither cold nor tired—only impatient, madam, to get my errand done.”
Lady Dalrymple shrank under the rebuff; her soft eyes took in the stranger; she noted the set face, the proud, contained mouth, the defiantly upheld head, the girl’s whole carriage as if disdaining everything about her.
“Are you in trouble?” she asked timidly.