“Well, I am going,” said Mrs. Colonibel; “goodnight,” and she turned toward the staircase.[staircase.]
Valentine tossed a cap on his black head and opening a door leading to a veranda ran swiftly down a snowy path to the cottage.
When Vivienne entered the library Mr. Armour looked up in some surprise and with a faint trace of annoyance.
“I hope I am not disturbing you,” she said politely.
“Not at all,” and he turned his back on the table bestrewn with papers and invited her by a wave of the hand to sit down.
He stood himself leaning one elbow on the mantel, and looked curiously down at her as she sat glancing about at the book-cases and the rose and ashen hangings of his handsome room.
What a strangely self-possessed girl she was. Could he think of another who would come boldly into his presence and demand an interview with his own dignified self? No, he could not. Well, she was a foreigner. How he hated the type; the smooth black bands of hair, the level heavy eyebrows, the burning eyes. What havoc a face like this had already wrought in his family, and he shaded his eyes with his hand and averted them from her as she ejaculated:
“I beg your pardon for keeping you. I will say what I wish very shortly. I have just come from dining with the Macartneys.”
“At their hotel?”
“Yes.”