Outside this was a heavily carpeted staircase, up which Hugh stole noiselessly.
The handle turned smoothly beneath his grasp, and he found himself at last in his wife’s presence. The large room was lit only by the leaping flames of the fire, that threw quick flashes on the richly curtained bed and the luxurious appointments of a wealthy woman’s bedchamber. In a long chair before the fire, the tips of fur-lined slippers thrust on bare feet, resting on the fender, lay Minna. She wore a rich dressing-gown, with lace at throat and wrists. Her dark hair clustered about her shoulders. A delicate odour of toilette-washes and powder hung on the warmth of the room. Hugh stopped for a moment on the threshold, with a little catch at his breath. The subtle charm of the woman’s shrine stole gratefully over him. After all, it was sweet to have the right of such intimacy. He took off his dripping ulster and laid it aside before coming forward. Then he stooped and kissed her.
“Oh! how wet you are!” she cried, with a little grimace, rubbing her cheek with her handkerchief. “Do come and dry yourself. You will find your slippers in the secret drawer, as usual.”
She handed him a key which she took from her dressing-gown pocket, and while he was changing his wet boots:
“Well?” she said. “What news?”
“Bad. Your father will not consent, because I am a Christian. We shall have to elope.”
“Then you haven’t told him all?”
“No. I thought it wiser. There seemed no necessity. It will be better for us to get married again—publicly.”
He drew up an armchair by her side, close to the fire, and, leaning forward, warmed himself appreciatively.
“It’s an infernal night. You don’t know how sweet and cosy it is here.”