-not into a picturesque and comely disorder, but
into mere untidiness. And, meanwhile, how admirably small and cool _her_
nose looks! What rest and composure in her whole pose! What a neat
refinement in the disposition of her hair! What a soft luxury in her
dress! Even my one indisputable advantage of _youth_ seems to me as
dirt. Looking at the completeness of her native grace, I _despise_
youth. I think it an ill and ugly thing in its green unripeness. I look
round the room. After the thick outside air, saturated with moisture, I
think that the warm atmosphere would, were my spirit less disquieted,
lull me quickly to sleep. How perfumed it is, not with any meretricious
artificial scents, but with the clean and honest smell of sweet live
flowers. Yes, though I am aware that Mrs. Huntley has no conservatory,
yet hot-house flowers and airy ferns are scattered about the room in far
greater profusion than in mine, with all Roger's imposing range of
glass--scattered about here, there, and everywhere; not as if they were
a rare and holiday treat, but a most common, every-day occurrence. There
is not much work to be seen about, and _not a book_! On the other hand,
lounging-chairs, suited to the length or shortness of _any_ back; rococo
photograph stands, framing either a great many men, or a few men in a
great many attitudes; soothing pictures--_decollete_ Venuses, Love's
_greuze_ heads--tied up with rose-ribbon, and a sleepy half-light. On a
small table at the owner's elbow, a blue-velvet jeweler's case stands
open. On its white-satin lining my long-sighted eyes enable me to
decipher the name of Hunt and Roskell; and it does not need any long
sight to observe the solid breadth of the gold band bracelet, set with
large, dull turquoises and little points of brilliant light, which is
its occupant. As I note this phenomenon, my heart burns within me--yea,
burns even more hotly than my nose. For father keeps Algy very tight,
and I know that he has only three hundred pounds a year, besides his
pay.

"I have had such bad news to-day," I say, suddenly, looking my
_vis-a-vis_ full and directly in the face.

"Yes?"

So far she certainly shows no signs of emotion. Her fan is still waving
with slow steadiness. I see the diamonds on her hands (whence did _they_
owe their rise, I wonder?) glint in the fire-light.

"Roger is not coming back!"

"Not at all?" with a slight raising of the eyebrows.

"Not before Christmas, certainly."