“No’m—not yet,”—she glanced at George as if to say he had only been down a few minutes.
“Then do it when you have taken the tray,” said Meg.
“You don’t open this window,” said George churlishly. “It’s cold enough as it is.”
“You should put a coat on then if you’re starved,” replied Meg contemptuously. “It’s warm enough for those that have got any life in their blood. You do not find it cold, do you Cyril?”
“It is fresh this morning,” I replied.
“Of course it is, not cold at all. And I’m sure this room needs airing.”
The maid, however, folded the cloth and went out without approaching the windows.
Meg had grown stouter, and there was a certain immovable confidence in her. She was authoritative, amiable, calm. She wore a handsome dress of dark green, and a toque with opulent ostrich feathers. As she moved about the room she seemed to dominate everything, particularly her husband, who sat ruffled and dejected, his waistcoat hanging loose over his shirt.
A girl entered. She was proud and mincing in her deportment. Her face was handsome, but too haughty for a child. She wore a white coat, with ermine tippet, muff, and hat. Her long brown hair hung twining down her back.
“Has dad only just had his breakfast?” she exclaimed in high censorious tones as she came in.
“He has!” replied Meg.
The girl looked at her father in calm, childish censure.
