She got up quietly and shut the window, and sat down again pulling her chair a little nearer to him.
“Rain and soft weather and a little sun,” he rambled. “Winter? We used to skate. But now-a-days——” He cleared his throat. His eye brightened. He was the old Gran’papa, declaiming—
“The seasons alter, hoar-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose—the crimson rose——”
His voice faded. He peered at her.
“You should go for a walk. White cheeks! White cheeks!” Then—“What’s the date?”
“Tuesday, Gran’papa.”
“Tut—the month?”
“December.”
“Ah, it fits—it always fits—