“Here, come along,” he cried, slipping his arm through mine.  “You have had enough of the garden, for between you and me, my dear Major”—­here he looked askance at Miss Felicia—­“I think it an admirable place in which to take cold, and that’s why—­” and he passed his hand over his scalp—­“I always insist on wearing my hat when I walk here.  Mere question of imagination, perhaps, but old fellows like you and me should take no chances—­” and he laughed heartily.

“This room was my father’s,” continued Peter.  “The bookcases have still some of the volumes he loved; he liked the low ceiling and the big fireplace, and always wrote here—­it was his library, really.  There opens the old drawing-room and next to it is Felicia’s den, where she concocts most of her deviltry, and the dining-room beyond—­and that’s all there is on this floor, except the kitchen, which you’ll hear from later.”

And as Peter rattled on, telling me the history of this and that piece of old furniture, or portrait, or queer clock, my eyes were absorbing the air of cosey comfort that permeated every corner of the several rooms.  Everything had the air of being used.  In the library the chairs were of leather, stretched into saggy folds by many tired backs; the wide, high fender fronting the hearth, though polished so that you could see your face in it, showed the marks of many a drying shoe, while on the bricks framing the fireplace could still be seen the scratchings of countless matches.

The drawing-room, too—­although, as in all houses of its class and period, a thing of gilt frames, high mirrors and stiff furniture—­ was softened by heaps of cushions, low stools and soothing arm-chairs, while Miss Felicia’s own particular room was so veritable a symphony in chintz, white paint and old mahogany, with cubby-holes crammed with knickknacks, its walls hung with rare etchings; pots of flowers everywhere and the shelves and mantels crowded with photographs of princes, ambassadors, grand dukes, grand ladies, flossy-headed children, chubby-cheeked babies (all souvenirs of her varied and busy life), that it was some minutes before I could throw myself into one of her heavenly arm-chairs, there to be rested as I had never been before, and never expect to be again.

It being Peter’s winter holiday, he and Morris had stopped over on their way down from Buffalo, where Holker had spoken at a public dinner.  The other present and expected guests were Ruth MacFarlane, who was already upstairs; her father, Henry MacFarlane, who was to arrive by the next train, and last and by no means lest, his confidential clerk, Mr. John Breen, now two years older and, it is to be hoped, with considerable more common-sense than when he chucked himself neck and heels out into the cold world.  Whether the expected arrival of this young gentleman had anything to do with the length of time it took Ruth to dress, the Scribe knoweth not.  There is no counting upon the whims and vagaries of even the average young woman of the day, and as Ruth was a long way above that medium grade, and with positive ideas of her own as to whom she liked and whom she did not like, and was, besides, a most discreet and close-mouthed young person, it will be just as well for us to watch the game of battledoor and shuttlecock still being played between Jack and herself, before we arrive at any fixed conclusions.