Before the blazing logs in the library Mrs. Craighill rallied again, touched to pity by the sight of Jean’s shoes, borrowed of the housekeeper at Rosedale, which, as she placed her own dainty slippers on the fender, seemed to shrink in their own humility out of sight under the girl’s crumpled skirt. Wayne threw up a blind to observe the weather and called them to see the snow, which lay white under the electric light of the streets and had transformed the hedge into a stern barricade of white masonry. The jingle of sleigh-bells stole in upon them as they turned to the fire.
The storm served a distinct purpose in eliminating from the possibilities the chance of interruption. People had been in the habit of dropping in in the evening—it was an attention that Colonel Craighill liked; but as her departure had been duly gazetted by the society reporters it was hardly possible, Mrs. Craighill reflected, that anyone would brave the storm merely to leave a card at the door.
By half-past eight Mrs. Craighill had begun to be bored, and it was upon this trying situation that the maid entered with Wingfield’s and Walsh’s cards. These gentlemen had found a sleigh for the journey and the tinkle of bells in the carriage entrance cheerfully preluded their arrival. Their appearance had been accomplished with so much expedition that before Mrs. Craighill could hand the cards over to Wayne the two gentlemen were within the library portières, rubbing their hands at the sight of the blaze and exhaling an air so casual and amiable as to disarm suspicion.
“It was Walsh did it,” began Wingfield. “He took me for a sleigh-ride and when I complained of being cold he said we’d go into the Craighills’ on the chance of finding somebody at home. It’s always Mr. Walsh; you never can say no to him. I’ve undoubtedly contracted pneumonia and they’ll be pumping oxygen into me before daylight.”
Mrs. Craighill introduced Miss Morley, and Wayne’s astonishment at seeing the men hardly exceeded his surprise when Walsh, turning from Mrs. Craighill, spoke Miss Morley’s name distinctly and shook hands with her.
“I have met Miss Morley before,” he said, and sat down by her.
“You see,” Mrs. Craighill was saying, “the papers tried to send me to Boston, but here I am, and glad not to be up there in the blizzard.”
“Nothing could be cosier than this! That is hickory; there’s a particular charm in hickory, but my mother will have none of it; she sticks to pine knots.”
Nothing had escaped Wingfield’s keen eyes; but the sigh with which he settled himself was half an expression of relief. The presence of the third figure in the scene satisfied him of the baseness of Walsh’s assumption, and added, moreover, an agreeable novelty to the call. Mrs. Craighill was a clever woman; his interest in her increased; he paid her the tribute of his sincere admiration. As to the girl’s identity, he could wait. As he discussed current social history with Mrs. Craighill he appraised Jean with a connoisseur’s eye. Wayne had been tinkering the fire, and when he rose he sat down between Mrs. Craighill and Wingfield.
Walsh, his face reddened by the wind, was giving his attention to Miss Morley, and the others caught only occasionally a word of their conversation.