"I have been away. I only just got back."
In the closing of the umbrella and the hanging up of his hat and overcoat they escaped a more intimate greeting. But now that the hat and coat were hung and the dripping umbrella safe in the stand, Anne faced the need to take Roger upstairs or into the gloomy parlor to the right. She hesitated.
Roger had come. In a moment, she would bring Rogie to him. The future would hold whatever was possible of friendship for them, or else she would be outside the union of Rogie and his father. Until she knew, she must keep her lonely rooms upstairs as a retreat untouched by Roger's presence. If the future was to hold nothing she did not want memory there. She led the way to the parlor and lit the light.
"I was just getting Rogie ready for bed, but he didn't want to go a bit. He's wide awake."
Roger felt the dismal chill of the room shutting down upon him and struggled against it in the first remark that came to him.
"I don't suppose he will remember me."
"Oh, yes, I think he will. I was afraid he wouldn't know me when I came back from the mountains, he took so long to size me up. But he did."
She pulled down the shades and moved to the door.
"I'll just dress him again; it won't take but a few minutes."
She had not taken Rogie with her then. He had been in the city all the time, guarded by the Mitchells. Roger frowned and began walking up and down the rather long room. At the farther end a narrow glass door, draped with an ugly curtain of monk's cloth, hid the garden beyond. When he reached it, Roger pulled the curtain aside and looked out into the dripping bushes. It was a neglected garden, not riotous with overgrown plants as the cottage garden, but a lank, weed-grown strip, long and narrow. Roger dropped the curtain quickly and, lighting a cigarette, began walking again.