"Very much," said Derrice, going up to an aromatic fire of small sticks, burning on a white-tiled hearth.
"These spring winds nip like pincers," said Miss Gastonguay, stretching out her own hands to the blaze, and stifling a yawn. "Dear me, I wish five o'clock would come."
Derrice slightly raised her eyebrows.
"That is only the second question you have asked," said Miss Gastonguay. "Yes, I always have tea at five,—a fashion I picked up in England. Whether I am here, or not, the tray comes in. If I don't get it, the twins have it."
"Ah,—you have children in the house."
"Yes, a pair, sixty-two and sixty-five,—brothers, former small and well-to-do storekeepers in the town—ruined by drink—housed in the asylum for the poor—rescued by me—faithful, but tiresome servants ever since. There's one of them."
An old serving-man came tiptoeing into the room. He pretended not to see Miss Gastonguay for an instant, then he started affectedly, made her a little bow, and, going to a distant corner, brought from it a tiny white table, and set it before her. Then lifting the top of a white silk ottoman, he drew from a box inside an exquisitely embroidered cloth, that he spread over the table.
Derrice, whose life for the last few days had been one of tedious monotony, watched with interest this self-conscious high priest, who, with his air of profound mystery, so slowly forwarded the ceremonies connected with the brewing of a cup of tea.
"Has Miss Chelda come in yet, Prosperity?" asked Miss Gastonguay, abruptly.
"No, ma'am," he said, hanging his head like a sheepish, fooling boy, and hurrying from the room.