id I. Then I picked up her little shoes
and stooped to fit them on to their feet.

"You are looking after me nicely, Adam," she said, laying a hand on my
shoulder to keep her balance. I straightened my back and looked at her.

"My dear," I said, "I--oh, heavens, let's see what we've got for
supper." And I turned hurriedly to the dishes in front of the fire.

When I looked round, she was lighting the candles.

"You mustn't go to bed at once," I said, pushing back my chair. "It's
bad for the digestion. Sit by the fire a little, as you did before.
Wait a moment. I'll give you a cigarette."

I settled her amid cushions, put out the candles, and struck the red
fire into flames.

"But where will you sit, Adam?"

"I shall lean elegantly against the chimney-piece and tell you a fairy
story."

"I'm all for the story, but I think you'd better be a child and sit on
the hearthrug, too. There's plenty of room."

"A child," said I, sitting down by her side. "My dear, do you realize
that I'm as old as the Cotswold Hills."

"There now, Adam. And so am I."

"No," I said firmly, "certainly not."

"But--"

"I don't care. You're not. Goddesses are immortal and their youth
dies not."

"I suppose I ought to get up and curtsey."

"If you do, I shall have to rise and make you a leg, so please don't."

For a moment she smiled into the fire. Then:

"I wonder if two people have ever sat here before, as we're sitting
now?"

"Many a time," said I. "Runaway couples, you know. I expect the old
wood walls think we're another pair."

"They can't see, though."

"No. Born blind. That's why they hear so well. And they never
forget. These four"--with a sweep of my cigarette--"have long memories
of things, some sweet, some stern, some full of tears, and some again
so mirthful that they split their panelled sides with merriment
whenever they call them to mind."

"And here's another to make them smile."

"Smile? Yes. Wise, whimsical, fatherly smiles, especially wise. They
think we're lovers, remember."

"I forgot. Well, the sooner they find out their mis--"

"Hush!" said I. "Walls love lovers. Have pity and don't undeceive
them. It'd break the poor old fellows' hearts. That one's looking
rather black already.

"She laughed in spite of herself. Then:

"But they haven't got any hearts to break."

"Of course they have. The best in the world, too. Hearts of oak. Now
you must make up for it. Co