Julia herself was sitting before the fire now, one slippered foot to the
blaze. Four years in London life had left her as lovely as ever; perhaps
there was even an increase of beauty in the lines of her closed lips, a
certain accentuation of the old spiritual sweetness in her look. Her
bright hair was still wound about her head in loose braids, and her
severely simple gown of Quaker gray was relieved at the wrists and
throat by transparent frills of white. In her arms lay a baby less than
a year old, a splendid boy, whose eyes, through half-closed lids, were
lazily studying the fire. His little smocked white frock showed sturdy
bare knees, and the fine web of his yellow hair blew like a gold mist
against his mother's breast.
The room's only other occupant, a tall, handsome woman, in a tan cloth
suit, with rich furs, presently turned from the deep curtained arch of a
window. This was Barbara Fox, Lady Curriel now, still thin, and still
with a hint of sharpness and fatigue in her browned face, yet with rare
content and satisfaction written there, too. Barbara's life was full,
and every hour brought its demand on her time, but she was a very happy
woman, devoted to her husband and her three small sons, and idolizing
her baby daughter.
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