"All right," said the hostess, "I'll stay too--there are plenty
without me--and we'll have a drive later on."

She passed to her breakfast-table, and Deb rose and went upstairs, to
see what she could find to attend to in the way of pressing
correspondence.

She had the status of a married lady in this great house, as
everywhere; that is to say, a sitting-room of her own--a very cosy
place between tea and the dressing-bell. Just now, however, Rosalie was
busy in it. The maid offered to retire to the adjoining bed-chamber,
but Deb said, "Oh, never mind; go on," and gathering her blotting-book
and papers, went downstairs again to make herself comfortable in the
library. She loved a good library to sit in, and generally found
privacy therein at this time of day.

The library here was magnificent in stately comfort--books in
thousands, busts, old masters, muffling Turkey carpets, a great,
bright, still fire, and armchairs so big and soft that it was strange
they could stand empty. She drew up one of them and sat awhile,
toasting her feet and turning precious leaves--it was the interval
covered by Claud's breakfast--and then set herself to the business she
was supposed to be engaged in.

"Dear Francie,--I tried at half-a-dozen shops to match your Chinese
satin, but nowhere could I get the exact shade. If you like I will try
again when I go back to town, but if I were you I would not attempt to
make it go with any modern stuff, which could not help looking crude
beside it; I would have quite another material and colour. What do you