“Here we are, Miss Adair, at home quite safe and sound. I’m vain of driving, because they say it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks and I learned only last year. I don’t do the idiot things men attribute to women drivers. Jump out, my dear, and tell yourself you’re coming home. You haven’t forgotten how to play house, have you? My man will come to take the car around to the garage. Come into the library; there’ll be a log fire on the hearth there. Here we are! Ah, I love to come home!” Miss Braithwaite, talking cheerfully, led the way across and half-way down a great entrance hall. She threw open one of a pair of doors, letting Cis precede her into a high-ceiled, wainscoted room, with high book shelves built around it, bronzes and beautiful marbles on their tops, shadowy pictures above them, a glorious fire of three-foot logs glowing lazily on the hearth, its light playing over the bindings of the three thousand or more books which ranged every side of the room, except the space occupied by the fireplace. “Oh!” exclaimed Cis. “How beautiful!” “That’s right! You must love this room or there’s no saying how violently we may quarrel before the night is over,” said Miss Braithwaite, pulling up a deeply upholstered semicircular chair before the fire, and gently pushing Cicely into it. “I’m so fond of this room that I’m debating how to get a bill before the legislature to give me more hours in the day to sit in it. I’m a busy woman, my dear, and sometimes I think I’m that old person in Mother Goose who ‘scarce ever was quiet.’ I hope one of these days to make myself a visit, spend a week quietly browsing beside this fire! My grandfather built the house, and began the library; my father added to them both. I’ve added only to the library, but isn’t it nice? Throw your hat and coat over on that straight inglenook chair, and lie back and watch the flames. Would you like to poke up the fire? It’s a harmless passion, but it takes strong hold of one! Take this poker and let air get between the logs; it’s great fun! We will have supper in here, beside the fire, and play we’re in a mountain camp. Do you make believe? It keeps one going, I assure you. I wouldn’t dare let sensible people know what silly things I do! I’m supposed to be a dignified, executive, getting-elderly lady! But you look much too nice to be sensible! I think I like you, my dear. Hair like yours is enough to warm up the first liking! It is glorious, child! Then your name--Cicely Adair! Might be one of the seven sweet symphonic names in ‘The Blessed Damosel’!” Miss Braithwaite had chatted on, precluding the awkwardness of Cicely’s entrance into a strange house, the guest of an entire stranger.