“How dismal you are, Helen! Why have you no fire?” I said, looking round on the gloomy apartment.
“It is summer yet,” she replied.
“But we always have a fire in the evenings, if we can bear it; and you especially require one in this cold house and dreary room.”
“You should have come a little sooner, and I would have had one lighted for you: but it is not worth while now—you won’t stay many minutes, you say, and Arthur is gone to bed.”
“But I have a fancy for a fire, nevertheless. Will you order one, if I ring?”
“Why, Gilbert, you don’t look cold!” said she, smilingly regarding my face, which no doubt seemed warm enough.
“No,” replied I, “but I want to see you comfortable before I go.”
“Me comfortable!” repeated she, with a bitter laugh, as if there were something amusingly absurd in the idea. “It suits me better as it is,” she added, in a tone of mournful resignation.
But determined to have my own way, I pulled the bell.
“There now, Helen!” I said, as the approaching steps of Rachel were heard in answer to the summons. There was nothing for it but to turn round and desire the maid to light the fire.