He took it and held it, and for a moment we stood looking at each other
quite still and not speaking. I was too glad to say anything, too glad
to think. It was an astonishing gladness, a sort of reaction I suppose.
It welled through me like a warm current, must have shone in my face,
and spoken from my eyes. I’ve not often in my life been completely
outside myself, broken free of my consciousness and soared, but I was
then just for one minute, while I looked into Roger’s face, and felt
his hand round mine.
“You’re glad to see me, Evie,” he said and his voice sounded as if he
had a cold.
That broke the spell. I came back to my eighteen-foot parlor, but it
was so different, cozy and pretty and intimate, full of the things I
care for and that are friends to me. The rain on the roof had lost its
forlornness, or perhaps, by its forlornness accentuated the comfort and
cheer of my little room.
We sat by the fire. Roger’s feet were wet and he put them upon the
fender.
“Now, if you’d been plodding about in the rain with me you’d put yours
up, too. Hullo, what have I said? Your face is as red as a peony.”
“It’s the fire. I’ve been sitting over it for a long time,” I stammered.
Just then the register became vocal, with the habanera from _Carmen_.
Roger got up and shut it.
“Don’t you want to hear her sing?” I asked.
“No, I want to hear you talk,” said he.