Here Lady Esmondet, feeling for Lionel's torture, catching Mrs.
Marchmont's eye, rose from the table, leaving the gentlemen to discuss
the merits of bottles of no plebeian length of neck.
"How sweetly English the fire in the grate looks," observed Mrs.
Marchmont.
"Yes, it does; but while at home we really require it to keep away
cold, here it is more to remind us of the warm sun gone to rest," said
Lady Esmondet.
"There's no doubt the dear Spaniard, the Marquis Del Castello, has an
eye for luxurious comfort," said Vaura, as she sank into the corner of
a _tete-a-tete_ sofa and fell into a reverie of Lionel's probable
leave-taking.
While Mrs. Marchmont seated herself in an Elizabethan chair, Miranda
placing herself on a footstool by her side and laying her head with
its thin sandy curls on her knee.
"What a child you are still, Miranda," said her mother, sentimentally,
as she fondled the high cheek-bone.
"You are quite companions," said Lady Esmondet.
"We are bosom friends; more than sisters since the departure of my
dear husband.
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