Starkweather appeared in the doorway. He wore a velvet
smoking-jacket and slippers; and somehow, for a bright morning like
this, he seemed old, and worn, and cold.
"Well, well, friend," he said, "I'm glad to see you."
He said it as though he meant it.
"Come into the library; it's the only room in the whole house that is
comfortably warm. You've no idea what a task it is to heat a place like
this in really cold weather. No sooner do I find a man who can run my
furnace than he goes off and leaves me."
"I can sympathize with you," I said, "we often have trouble at our house
with the man who builds the fires."
He looked around at me quizzically.
"He lies too long in bed in the morning," I said.
By this time we had arrived at the library, where a bright fire was
burning in the grate. It was a fine big room, with dark oak furnishings
and books in cases along one wall, but this morning it had a dishevelled
and untidy look. On a little table at one side of the fireplace were the
remains of a breakfast; at the other a number of wraps were thrown
carelessly upon a chair. As I came in Mrs. Starkweather rose from her
place, drawing a silk scarf around her shoulders. She is a robust,
rather handsome woman, with many rings on her fingers, and a pair of
glasses hanging to a little gold hook on her ample bosom; but this
morning she, too, looked worried and old.
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