Suddenly, something undefinable—a slight sound, a current of air—made her turn her head. To her amazement she saw a young man in the doorway looking at her with smiling eyes, and quietly drawing off his gloves.
She sprang up with a feeling of annoyance.
"Mr. Wharton!"
"Oh!—must you?"—he said, with a movement of one hand, as though to stop her. "Couldn't you stay like that? At first I thought there was nobody in the room. Your servant is grappling with my bags, which are as the sand of the sea for multitude, so I wandered in by myself. Then I saw you—and the fire—and the room. It was like a bit of music. It was mere wanton waste to interrupt it."
Marcella flushed, as she very stiffly shook hands with him.
"I did not hear the front door," she said coldly. "My mother will be here directly. May I give you some tea?"
"Thanks. No, I knew you did not hear me. That delighted me. It showed what charming things there are in the world that have no spectators! What a delicious place this is!—what a heavenly old place—especially in these half lights! There was a raw sun when I was here before, but now—"
He stood in front of the fire, looking round the great room, and at the few small lamps making their scanty light amid the flame-lit darkness. His hands were loosely crossed behind his back, and his boyish face, in its setting of curls, shone with content and self-possession.
"Well," said Marcella, bluntly, "I should prefer a little more light to live by. Perhaps, when you have fallen downstairs here in the dark as often as I have, you may too."
He laughed.