Miss French got up, put her cigarette-case in her velvet hand-bag, slipped on her coat, fastened her veil, picked up her muff, shook it, and looked toward the door, between whose curtains Mrs. Warrick was standing.

“I thought you’d gone for good, Hope.  You must have been telling all you knew, and more.  Miss Keith was just saying she loved Christmas in the country.  I can’t imagine anything worse, unless it’s Christmas in town.  I hate Christmas!  If I could go to sleep a week before, and not wake up until a week after, I’d surely do it.  Why, Winthrop Laine!”

On her way to the door Miss Robin French stood still and looked at the man coming in; and over her ruddy face swept color, almost purple in its deepness.  She was a handsome woman, stubbornly resisting the work of time.  In her eyes was restless seeking, in her movements an energy that could not be exercised in the limits of her little world; and Claudia, watching her, felt sudden whimsical sympathy.  She was so big, so lordly, so hungrily unhappy.

She held out her hand.  “How do you do?” she said.  “I am just going home, as your sister hasn’t asked me to dinner.  I suppose you will stay—­”

“If there’s to be any dinner.  Hope has a way of cutting it out every now and then.”  He turned to his sister.  “Are you going out to-night?”

“I certainly am not, and I’m so glad you’ve come!  I’ve lots to tell you and ask you.  Won’t you stay, Robin?” The question was put feebly.  “Do stay.  Oh, I beg your pardon, Claudia, you were so far off!  You haven’t met my brother.  Winthrop, this is Channing’s cousin, Miss Keith.  Please give him some tea, Claudia.  I know he’s frozen.  Can’t you stay, Robin—­really?”

“Really nothing!  Good-bye.”  Miss French waved her muff to the man who, over the teacups, was shaking hands with the girl on the opposite side of the table, and shook her head as he started toward her.  “Don’t come, Jenkins is out there with the car.  I’d stay to dinner, but Hope doesn’t enjoy hers if there’s a high-neck dress at the table.  Good-bye, Miss Keith; see you to-morrow night, I suppose.”  And, like a good strong draught that passes, she was gone.

“I’m glad she had sense enough not to stay.”  Mrs. Warrick came toward the tea-table.  “I’m fond of Robin, but of late she’s been even more energetic and emphatic than usual, and I feel like I’m being battledored and shuttlecocked whenever I see her.  Why don’t you drink your tea, Winthrop?”

“I don’t believe I put any sugar in it.  I beg your pardon!” Claudia took up the sugarbowl.  “It was Miss French, I guess.  She’s such a—­such a gusty person.  I love to hear her talk.  How many, Mr. Laine?”

“Three, please, and no comments, Hope.  If a man must drink tea he ought to have all the sugar he wants.  That last lump was so very little I think you might put in another, Miss Keith.  Thank you.  Perhaps this is sweet enough.”  “Winthrop just takes tea to have the sugar, He’s as bad as Dorothea about sweet things.”  Mrs. Warrick turned to her brother.  “Are you really going to stay to dinner?  Please do.  This is the only evening we’re to be home for a week, and Charming is anxious to see you on some business.”