"It doesn't seem as if Uncle Sylvester was any the more comfortable for having his own private bedding with him," said Kitty Lane, entering Marie's room early the next morning.

"Bridget found him curled up in his furs like a cat asleep on the drawing-room sofa this morning." Marie started; she remembered her last night's vision.

But some instinct--she knew not what--kept her from revealing it at this moment.
She only said a little ironically:-- "Perhaps he missed the wild freedom of his barbaric life in a small bedroom." "No.

Bridget says he said something about being smoked out of his room by a ridiculous wood fire.

The idea! As if a man brought up in the woods couldn't stand a little smoke.