She was at the time working out a medallion of her own design, and growing interested, she soon forgot all about Louise, sitting Turkish fashion at the big book-case. The light had long since faded and the enormous fire, gilding walls and furniture, rendered the candles' steady light almost superfluous. Candlelight was another predilection of Clare's--there was neither electricity nor gas in her tiny, perfect flat. The tick of the clock in the hall and the flutter of turning pages alone broke the silence. Outside, the snow fell steadily. Half-a-mile away Alwynne Durand, drumming on the window-pane, while her aunt dozed in her chair, thought incessantly of Clare, and was filled with restless longing to be with her. She tried to count the snowflakes till her brain reeled. She felt cold and dreary, but she would not rouse Elsbeth by making up the fire. She wished she had something new to read. She thought it the longest Christmas Day she had ever spent. The neat maid, bringing in the tea-tray, roused Clare. She pushed aside her work and began to pour out; but Louise in her corner, made no sign. Clare laughed. "Louise, wake up! Don't you want any tea?" Louise, as if the conversation had not ceased for an instant, scrambled to her feet and came to the table, a load of books in her arms, saying as she did so-- "I'll be awfully careful. May I take these, perhaps?" Clare nodded. "Presently. I'll look them over first. Muffins?" She gave Louise a delightful meal and taught her to take tea with a slice of lemon. She was particular, Louise noticed; some of the muffins were not toasted to her liking, and were instantly banished; she criticised the cakes and the flavouring of the dainty sandwiches; then she laughed wickedly at Louise for her round eyes. "What's the matter, child?" "Nothing," said Louise, embarrassed. "I believe you're shocked because I talked so much about food?" Louise blushed scarlet. "I like eating, Louise." "Yes--yes, of course," she concurred hastily. Clare was entertained. She knew quite well that Louise, like all children, considered a display of interest in food, if not indelicate, at least extremely human. She knew, too, that in Louise's eyes she was too entirely compounded of ideals and noble qualities to be more than officially human. She enjoyed upsetting her ideas. "If you come to actual values, I'd rather do without Shakespeare than Mrs. Beeton," she remarked blandly. "Oh, Miss Hartill!" Louise was protesting--suspecting a trap--ready to ripple into laughter. "You do say queer things." "I?" "Yes. As if you meant that!" "But I do! Eating's an art, Louise, like painting or writing. I had a pheasant last Sunday----" She gave the entire menu, and enlarged on the etceteras with enthusiasm. Louise looked bewildered. "I never thought you thought about that sort of thing," she remarked. "I thought you just didn't notice--I thought you would always be thinking of poetry and pictures----" She subsided, blushing.