They had planned to go to a theater in the evening, but a little after five the woman whom Anne had hired to stay with Rogie phoned that she could not come, and the tickets were cancelled. Roger had worked all afternoon in order to have the evening free, and now that the evening was to be his he decided to take a nap. He slept until Anne waked him for dinner at half past six.
After dinner he helped Anne with the dishes and they smoked an extra cigarette in honor of the day. But he was so plainly anxious to get back to the work he had not quite finished that at last Anne's taut nerves could no longer stand his generosity and she urged him to finish.
"Otherwise you'll want to sit up all night, and you've been up late for days."
"I would like to get it through to-night," he conceded. "But what will you do? I'm afraid I've been pretty absorbed all day."
"That's all right. I may go 'round to mom's for a little. I haven't even phoned and I sent the presents by post."
"Has it stopped raining?"
"I don't know. It doesn't matter." Anne went to the door and the sweet dampness of the garden flooded the warm room. "Yes, it's stopped; thickened to a heavy mist. I won't be long."
"Then I'll try and finish by the time you get back."
Almost before the door closed Roger was at the typewriter. As Anne went down the stairs she heard it click, click, as fast as Katya's.
She found Hilda and James alone, Hilda crocheting and James reading in the silence that always lay over their evenings. For a few moments her entrance shattered it, and they came together in interest of her news, the health of Rogie, the presents Anne had sent. Then James went back to his paper and Hilda rummaged in her disordered work-basket for Belle's last letter.