any too well." She felt, though, that Mrs. Bates had no right to defend
her father against his own daughter; no, nor any need.

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Bates, slowly. She crossed over to the radiator
and began working at the valve. "I _told_ Granger I knew he'd be sorry if
he didn't put in furnace-flues too. I really can't ask you to take your
things off down here; let's go upstairs--that's the only warm place I can
think of."

She paused in the hall. "Wouldn't you like to see the rest of the rooms
before you go up?"

"Yes--I don't mind," responded Jane. She was determined to encourage no
ostentatious pride; so she made her acceptance as indifferent as she felt
good manners would allow.

Mrs. Bates crossed over the hall and paused in a wide doorway. "This,"
she indicated, in a tone slightly suggestive of the cicerone, "is
the--well, the Grand Salon; at least, that's what the newspapers have
decided to call it. Do you care anything for Louis Quinze?"

Jane found herself on the threshold of a long and glittering apartment;
it was full of the ornate and complicated embellishments of the
eighteenth century--an exhibition of decorative whip-cracking. Grilles,
panels, mirror-frames all glimmered in green and gold, and a row of
lustres, each multitudinously candled, hung from the lofty ceiling.

Jane felt herself on firmer ground here than in the library, whose
general air of distinction, with no definite detail by way of guidepost,
had rather baffled her.