The small bedchamber opening off this apartment was used by Mr. Kenby.
Florence slept in a rear room on the floor above.
The dinner of three was scarcely over, on this blizzardy evening, when
Mr. Kenby betook himself up-stairs for his whist, to which, he had
confided to the girls, there was promise of additional attraction in the
shape of claret punch, and sundry pleasing indigestibles to be sent in
from a restaurant at eleven o'clock.
"So if Mr. Turl comes at half-past eight, we shall have at least three
hours," said Edna, when Florence and she were alone together.
"How excited you are, dear!" was the reply. "You're almost shaking."
"No, I'm not--it's from the cold."
"Why, I don't think it's cold here."
"It's from looking at the cold, I mean. Doesn't it make you shiver to see
the snow flying around out there in the night? Ugh!" She gazed out at the
whirl of flakes illumined by the electric lights in the street between
the furthest garden and the church. They flung themselves around the
pinnacles, to build higher the white load on the steep roof. Nearer, the
gardens and trees, the tops of walls and fences, the verandas and
shutters, were covered thick with snow, the mass of which was ever
augmented by the myriad rushing particles.
Edna turned from this scene to the fire, before which Florence was
already seated. The sound of an electric door-bell came from the hall.
"It's Tom," cried Edna. "Good boy!--ahead of time." But the negro man
servant announced Mr.
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