There was perfect unanimity between them as to the irrational singularity and sad weakness of aged persons.
Louis remarked—
"She said you would make everything right for me upstairs."
"I have done—I hope," said Rachel.
"Thanks awfully!"
One part of the table was covered with newspaper. Suddenly Rachel tore a strip off the newspaper, folded the strip into a spill, and, lighting it at the gas, tendered it to Louis' unlit cigarette.
The climax of the movement was so quick and unexpected as almost to astound Louis. For he had been standing behind her, and she had not turned her head before making the spill. Perhaps there was a faint reflection of himself in the window. Or perhaps she had eyes in her hair. Beyond doubt she was a strange, rare, angelic girl. The gesture with which she modestly offered the spill was angelic; it was divine; it was one of those phenomena which persist in a man's memory for decades. At the very instant of its happening he knew that he should never forget it.
The man of fashion blushed as he inhaled the first smoke created by her fire.
Rachel dropped the heavenly emblem, all burning, into the ash-bin of the range, and resumed her work.
Louis coughed. "Any law against sitting down?" he asked.