Again Belle looked at her sharply, changed her mind about speaking, and put the last piece of kindling on the fire. Together they stood silently watching it flare, then crumble, char and drop to gray ash.
When the last faint glow had died from the embers, Anne brought Belle's things from the room where Rogie was now fast asleep. But even after they were on, Belle lingered as if reluctant to go.
"If there's anything you want, you'll let me know, won't you, kiddie?"
"Yes, I'll let you know, but there won't be anything, I'm sure. The hours at the office aren't bad at all and I believe Mrs. Jeffries will take wonderful care of Rogie. It's—a little strange now—but I'll get it homied up in time. I've got a few ideas about this room already."
"You can have anything of mine out of storage that you want. Do you remember that heavy tapestry stuff I had a mania for once? It didn't go in a small modern apartment, but it would be great with these high ceilings. You'll ask me, won't you?"
"Yes, I promise. But for the present I'll just go on like this till I get the feel of the place."
"Don't go on too long or you'll get to feel like the place. I know you, Anne, better than you know yourself."
Anne laughed. "You make me feel like a fly at the end of a microscope."
"Not a fly," Belle said with a pretense of serious consideration, "no, not a fly. A little moth with gold dust all over it, one of the shimmery kind that looks as if it were going to fall apart if you touched it."
"And never does, but crawls right alone even after it's burnt off its wings."