It was a poor, squalid enough room, very dark, ill-kept, littered with cooking utensils, cookery, and strange articles of clothing. An old man lay in the great wooden bedstead, his face barely visible in the dim light which was further obscured by the dingy white curtains running on a rope, fixed over the bed. “Jean-Marie.” cried the old woman, “here is Madame come to read to you. Will Madame give herself the trouble to sit down? My daughter has not come in yet, so the room is still unmade.” The old man raised himself on his elbow and grinned at Katherine. “One would say it was an angel when Madame comes.” The old woman broke out again in welcome. It was so good of Madame to come. Jean-Marie could do nothing but talk of her. Really Jean-Marie was right, and she was an angel. Katherine took the venerable wooden armchair that was placed for her near the stove, accepted graciously the pillow that the old woman took from the bed to make her more comfortable, and after a few minutes' gossip opened the book she had brought with her and began to read. The old man turned so that he could fix his eyes upon her. His old wife sat on a straight-backed chair at the foot of the bed and listened in deep attention. Katherine read on amid a rapt silence, only broken now and then by an “oh, la! la!” muttered under the breath, at which she could scarcely repress a smile. She was happier now. Her best, kindest, tenderest self only was shown to this poor, broken-down old couple who seemed to worship her. There was a humour blended with pathos, too, in the situation that appealed to her. For the book in which their whole souls were concentrated was a French translation of “Robinson Crusoe.” CHAPTER III.--LOST IN THE SNOW |IT was the middle of January. Felicia stood at the salon window and looked out at the snow falling, falling in the deserted street. She was oppressed by the dead silence of things. There was not even a cheerful fire to crackle in the room, which was heated by the cold white porcelain stove in the corner. All the ladies had retired to their rooms, for their usual afternoon siesta, and there was not a sound in the house. She caught sight of a cab passing down the street, but it moved with a deathlike noiselessness over the snow. She half wished the driver would crack his whip, although she hated the maniacal pastime, dear to Genevese cabmen, as much as Schopenhauer himself. But he passed on, a benumbed, silent spectre, huddled up on his box. Nothing but stillness, dreariness, and desolation. The house seemed empty, the street empty, the world empty.