“I hope you told them I did not care for anything before luncheon?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“And it is raining again. It has done nothing but rain since we landed.”
While they were speaking Margaret had got into a long loose gown and moved to the fire, where Russell had already placed an easy chair for her. Wrapped in the voluminous folds of the garment she had donned she seemed quite small and very slight. Her face was wholly lacking in color except for a faint flush that at times burned on either cheek. Her hair, in two massive braids that fell below her waist, was a rich warm brown in the shadow, and golden where the light touched it. Her hands were small and beautifully shaped.
Most apparent was a fragile quality of face and form as if a breath might wither her.
Sitting in the great armchair and shrinking down toward the fire for warmth, shivering too, in unison with every gust of wind or rain that spent its force against the window, one could but marvel that she had known so much of life.
Russell brushed her hair gently, taking care the strain should not rest upon the dainty little head.
Margaret gazed thoughtfully into the fire. A certain sad aloofness was expressed in her manner as though all her sorrows had been borne without friend or confidante.
“I wonder if it's like this every day—without sunshine or clear skies,” she murmured.
Russell did not respond to the direct question, but finished dressing her hair and stepped to the door, saying: