"Will you have your chocolate?" asked Honoria, kneeling before her and taking off her damp shoes.
The Countess nodded.
"It is early yet," continued the maid. "Will you not get to bed?"
The Countess Lavinia raised herself in her chair and looked round the room—rich, yet dishevelled and dreary with its confusion of articles of frivolity and vanity.
"No," she said vacantly. "Go make the chocolate."
Honoria gave her a pair of glittering slippers and went lightly into the next chamber, where, on an elegant table of kingswood, stood the silver chocolate service. Before preparing this she crept to the door, opened it, and went out upon the landing to peer over the lordly stairs. Everything was silent. But the Earl must have returned.
Honoria went back and cast a wondering glance on the pile of torn letters. There was insanity in my lady's family, and Honoria remembered it—recalled violent scenes between father and daughter—threats of Bedlam. The maid was convinced that the scene of yesterday had upset her mistress's brain. What was it but an act of madness, this wild attempt to cause my lord's death, this lonely adventure? And then this return to a desperate sorting and tearing up of old worthless letters?
She drew the rich heavy curtains back and let in the early sunlight, that shone gaily over the elegant, extravagant appointments of the chamber. When the chocolate was ready, frothed and milled, she poured out a cup and took it in to my lady.
The Countess sat where she had left her. The vivid colour of her wrap accentuated the curious pallor of her face; her tangled hair fell on her shoulders and her head was leaning back.