r was I telephoned."
He placed two chairs before the fire, which had begun to blaze. "Isn't
it cosy?" he said, taking her hands and pulling her toward him. His own
hands trembled, the tips of his fingers were cold.

"You are cold!" she said.

"Not now--not now," he replied. The queer vibrations were in his voice
that she had heard before. "Sweetheart! This is the best yet, isn't it?
And after that trip in the storm!"

"It's beautiful!" she murmured, gently drawing away from him and looking
around her once more. "I never was in a room like this."

"Well, you'll be in plenty more of them," he exulted. "Sit down beside
the fire, and get warm yourself."

She obeyed, and he took the chair at her side, his eyes on her face. As
usual, she was beyond him; and despite her exclamations of surprise,
of appreciation and pleasure she maintained the outward poise, the
inscrutability that summed up for him her uniqueness in the world of
woman. She sat as easily upright in the delicate Chippendale chair as
though she had been born to it. He made wild surmises as to what she
might be thinking. Was she, as she seemed, taking all this as a matter
of course? She imposed on him an impelling necessity to speak, to
say anything--it did not matter what--and he began to dwell on the
excellences of the hotel. She did not appear to hear him, her eyes
lingering on the room, until presently she asked:--"What's the name of
this hotel?"

He told her.

"I thought they only allowed married people to come, like this, in a
private room."

"Oh!" he began--and the sudden perception that she had made this
statement impartially added to his perplexity. "Well," he was able to
answer, "we're as good as married, aren't we, Janet?" He leaned toward
her, he put his hand on hers. "The manager here is an old friend of
mine. He knows we're as good as married."

"Another old friend!" she queried. And the touch of humour, in spite of
his taut nerves, delighted him.

"Yes, yes," he laughed, rather uproariously. "I've got 'em everywhere,
as thick as landmarks."

"You seem to," she said.

"I hope you're hungry," he said.

"Not very," she replied. "It's all so strange--this day, Claude. It's
like a fairy story, coming here to Boston in the snow, and this place,
and--and being with you."

"You still love me?" he cried, getting up.

"You must know that I do," she answered simply, raising her face to his.
And he stood gazing down into it, with an odd exp