"Bother Maitland! Why doesn't he have the house better warmed and
lighted," I muttered, as the baize door swung behind me, and the sudden
draught extinguished my candle. I would not go back to relight it for
fear of encountering some officious friend in the hall, who would insist
upon accompanying me into my retreat. I preferred groping my way down
the long corridor, which was in darkness except for a bright streak of
moonlight that streamed in through a window at the further end. I had
just decided that it was my plain duty to give Maitland the address of a
good shop where he could not only procure cheap lamps but also very
serviceable stoves for warming passages, at a moderate price, when I
discovered that the said window was open.
"Too bad of the servants," I thought; "I should discharge them all if
they were mine. It quite accounts for the howling draught through the
house. Just the thing to give one rheumatism at this time of year."
Advancing with the intention of excluding the chilly blast, I was
suddenly arrested by the sight of a motionless figure kneeling in front
of the window. It was Irene Latouche. I had not noticed her in the
confusing patch of moonlight until my foot was almost on the heavy
velvet dress which fell over the floor like a great dark pall. Her arms
were resting on the window-sill, her beautiful pale face gazing upwards
with an expression of agonised despair.
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