Clarinda shrank back from all these, and a queer feeling went down her back. All these elaborate things that hung in festoons from the walls and hooks and this crowd of powerful servants scared her. She felt she had receded into the position of a marionette.
Quickly she drew Peter from the kitchen and went back by a hidden staircase to the little room with the tall lamp and the divan; for here Clarinda felt more at home.
Peter sat down in the corner of the divan and stretched his legs out in front of him. He was filled with a great complacency, as he pulled Clarinda down beside him. The tall lamp glowed behind them. The maid had lit the fire and the flames went up the chimney, just as they did in the flat.
“Well,” he asked, “how do you like the new nest I have got for you?”
Clarinda sat for a long time and made no answer. Her face was drawn into a knot. She was thinking seriously. However, she tucked herself into her place beside him and took his hand in hers and her eyes were half closed as she gazed steadily into the fire.
“Father is coming presently,” she said at last, without answering his question. “I want him to look the place over, for he knows so much more than we do.”
“You’ve great faith in the judgment of your father—and apparently little in your husband,” Peter replied with a peeved tone in his voice.
“No—not—exactly—that,” she hesitated. “Ring the bell for the maid, Peter.”
Peter rang the bell, and the maid came in and stood inquiringly at the door.
“I want to do something, Peter,” she said.