Guy closed one eye. "Oh, I'm a positive saint to-day. I've promised—almost—never to be naughty again. Do you know Burke slept on the floor in here last night? Decent of him, wasn't it?"
Sylvia glanced swiftly round. "Did he? How uncomfortable for him!
He mustn't do that again,"
"He didn't notice," Guy assured her. "He was much too pleased with himself. I rather like him for that, you know. He has a wonderful faculty for—what shall we call it?—mental detachment? Or, is it physical? Anyway, he knows how to enjoy his emotions, whatever they are, and he doesn't let any little personal discomfort stand in his way."
He ended with a careless laugh from which all bitterness was absent, and after a little pause Sylvia sat down by his side. His whole attitude amazed her this morning. Some magic had been at work. The fretful misery of the past few weeks had passed like a cloud. This was her own Guy come back to her, clean, sane, with the boyish humour that she had always loved in him, and the old quick light of understanding and sympathy in his eyes.
He watched her with a smile. "Aren't you going to light up, too?
Come, you'd better. It'll tone you up,"
She looked back at him. "Had you better smoke?" she said. "Won't it start your cough?"
He lifted an imperious hand. "It won't kill me if it does. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?" she said.
"As if I'd come back from the dead." He frowned at her abruptly though his eyes still smiled. "Don't!" he said.
She smiled in answer, and picked up the matchbox. It was of silver and bore his initials.