Tales of the City Room
in the depths of a great easy-chair Mrs. Ogilvie, whose sombre gown recalled her recent bereavement, had been dreamily listening to the music, which swept her thoughts back to the old days when she and John were so happy together.
To her, as to Ruth Herrick, the words just spoken were a discord in the harmony of a social evening after the strain of the week. Miss Herrick rose and turned on the electric light, whose radiance, under silk shades, threw a softened light over the apartment. Her guests, startled by the unexpected illumination, blinked protestingly at her as they changed their positions to more conventional ones, while she drew the shades to screen the rooms, with their picturesque group, from the gaze of inquisitive neighbors. Outside, the wind whimpered through the courts of the big hotel, and the cheerless rain of November beat against the window-panes. Mrs. Ogilvie lent ear to it for a moment, and turned with a little shiver from the mental contemplation of the obtrusive grave on the hillside to the homely picture of the firelight blazing on the hearth.
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