She glanced warningly toward the top of the partition.
"Away at the other end," Basil assured her, "and doing something that can't be left an instant for an hour or more."
"Well then—" She blushed, hesitated, gave him a passionate, longing look. "One more kiss—and we go to work."
He seated himself and drew her to his lap. With their heads close together, they talked—of anything, of everything, of nothing—and hardly knew what they were saying—and cared not at all. "Oh, the happiness of it," she murmured. "And we are to work side by side, too. It seems a dream. I can't believe it."
"And soon it will be spring again, and we shall be a little freer."
"Be patient until I get everything settled," she answered, "and we shall be free almost all the time. I have thought it out."
"You think of everything."
"I think of nothing but you—always you," she answered. "What have I but our love? I want to make the house comfortable, your apartment comfortable, myself attractive—all, so that love will never begin to think of taking flight."
"Flight!" He laughed softly. "How absurd! Can't you feel that I'm just wrapped up in you?"
She touched his tight encircling arms. "I can feel that I'm just wrapped up in you," she retorted. "Now, let me go. I am not to keep you from the work—or you me."