"Thank you."
She took the glass that he filled and sipped its contents. The boatman helped himself.
"Still blowing," he commented as he watched the sparks sucked up the chimney.
Rosalind gave little thought to the tumult without. She was too thoroughly luxurious. Even though her gown was wet, she felt that she had been thrust into a wholly sybaritic environment. Lazily she watched two little, ascending volumes of steam as her stockings began to dry before the fire.
"How about eating?" he asked.
"We might," she admitted. "That is, if you know—"
"Been here before," he answered, smiling. "You remember, I guess."
She watched him as he went back to the dining-room, and a minute after that from another apartment she heard sounds, which she judged to indicate the pantry or the kitchen.
It was rather curious to be in a house with a burglar, she reflected. She did not think of it as hazardous, or unlawful, or even improper—merely as curious. Ethics had been knocked out of her adventure long ago. She was thankful for the wine he brought her; she would be glad when the food came. These were material comforts, very real and needful; and her mind for the present was dwelling only upon material things.
It did not seem to her that it was even unusual to break Mr. Davidson's window, to enter his house, to light his fire, to drink his sherry, to eat his food; these were but mere incidents in a necessary proceeding.