Betty Steel sat alone at the open window of her room one evening as the sun went down over the red roofs of the old town. Lying back in her chair, with her head on a cushion of yellow silk, she could see nothing of the life in the square below, but only the tops of the elm-trees, the black spire of the church, and an infinite expanse of cloud-barred sky. The west stood one great splendor of scarlet and of gold. Above, at the zenith, the clouds were bathed in a radiance of auriferous rose. A cold chalcedony blue held the eastern arch, where the purple rim of the night merged into the amethystine shadows of the woodland hills.
Betty Steel was alone, save for the cat Mignon, curled up asleep in her mistress’s lap. Half covering the cat was a crumpled letter, a letter that had been read and reread by eyes that were blind to the pageant of the summer sky. She stirred now and again in her chair, and shivered. The evening seemed cold to her despite all this chaos of color, this kindling of the torches of the west. The house, too, had an empty silence, like a lonely house where death had been and set a seal upon its lips.
Betty lifted Mignon from her lap, rose, crossed the room, and rang the bell. She took a crimson opera-cloak from a wardrobe in the corner, flung it across her shoulders, and returned to her chair, with the crumpled letter still in her hand.
“Yes, ma’am.”
A white cap and apron were framed by the shadows of the landing.
“Is Miss Ellison back yet, Symons?”
“No, ma’am. She said—”
“Listen! Isn’t that the front door?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Will you ask her to come to me here?”