THE RETURN
The mirror in the overmantel now fascinated Mrs. Tottenham. She finished her tea mechanically, laid her cup down and stood before the fireplace, patting and tweaking at her hair. Her husband looked at her contemptuously. "Pretty little daughter I've got!" he mumbled, with his mouth full of cake. It was a bitter comment on the mistake made by the gentleman at the Hydro.
Mrs. Tottenham put her hands before her face and hurried from the room.
Lydia began to gather up the tea things, and a servant darkened the windows with a musty clatter of Venetian blinds. Mr. Tottenham's chair creaked as he stretched his legs out to the fire. The room was hot with the smell of tea and tea-cakes, and the smell of upholstery and wilting ferns was drawn out by the heat.
The hall outside was cold and quiet. The sense of the afternoon's invasion had subsided from it like a storm. Through a strip of door the morning-room beckoned her with its associations of the last six weeks. She saw the tall uncurtained windows grey-white in the gloom.
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