'I am warm, thank you, and quite comfortable.'
'My love, I don't believe it' (with extreme mildness); 'it is freezing as hard as it can, and there is always a draught near a window. Come here, when I desire you.'
'Oh, I shall die near that blazing log.'
'And I shall die if you remain over there,' says Aunt Isabel; and carries her point.
'Better I than you, Auntie,' says Miss Mordaunt, and coming over, good-humouredly kneels down beside her kinswoman.
'Cold hands—warm heart,' murmurs the old lady, caressing the soft white fingers that lie upon her lap.
'A troublesome possession,' remarks Mrs Leyton with a lazy smile. 'No one is really happy in this world except he or she who carries an empty bosom.'
'Are you happy?' asks Miss Cissy innocently.
'Almost. The little worn-out article that beats here'—laying her hand over the region of the heart—'has pulsations hardly strong enough to cause me any uneasiness. Now and then I feel a faint pang—not often.'
'I would rather keep my heart, even at the expense of my suffering,' says Cissy warmly. 'She who cannot feel anguish, can know no perfect joy. Without love, life is a mistake, an unutterably stupid gift. That is how I think; but then I am Irish, and therefore of course unreasonable.'