Rylton has drawn a chair for her towards the fire that is lighting in his grate, and now sinks into another.
"It's awfully late, isn't it?" says Tita, with a yawn, "but I'll stay a minute or two. Why, what we arranged was, that we should be friends, you and I—eh?"
"Well?"
"Well—that's all. Poke up the fire, and let me see a blaze. Fancy your having a fire so early!"
"Haven't you one?"
"Yes. But then I'm a woman. However, when I see one I want it poked.
I want it blazing."
At this Sir Maurice pokes the fire, until it flames well up the chimney.
"Ah! I like that," says Tita. She slips from her chair to the hearthrug—a beautiful white soft Persian one—and sits upon it, as it were, one snowflake on another. "How nice it is!" says she, staring at the sparks roaring up the chimney; "such a companion!" She leans back and rests her head against Rylton's knees. "Now, go on," she says comfortably.
"Go on?"
"Yes. We were saying something about friends. That we should be friends all our lives. So we shall be. Eh?"