“Yes, here you are. At last,” she said. “How shamefully you have punished me this time!”
She laughed, but Perior sighed.
“I haven’t been punishing you,” he said, walking away to the fireplace. Camelia followed him and watched him hold out his hand to the warmth.
“Is it so cold?” she asked.
“Very chilly; the wind catches one on that mile along the common. My hands are half-numbed.” Prettily, as she leaned in her illumined whiteness beside him, she took his hands between her own and rubbed them briskly.
“You wrote that you were unhappy,” said Perior, looking down at the daintily imprisoned hands; “what is the matter?”
“The telling will keep. I am happier now.”
“Did you get me here on false pretences?” He smiled as he now looked at her, and the smile forgave her in advance.
“No, no. I needed you very much; really I did. I am growing melancholy; and I was all alone. I hate being alone.”
“There, that will do. They are quite warm now; thanks very much. Where are the others?”