Ten minutes later, in a dressing-gown and bare feet, he sat with them before an open fire and sipped the toddy she had brewed.
“I say, this is great!”
Lydia was suddenly shy and embarrassed.
“Good night,” she whispered. Her fingers brushed his cheek lightly.
He drew her down to him and kissed her passionately.
“Good night, my Lyddy!” he said softly, his cheek flushing.
She went quickly from the room.
Later he stood in her sweet, dainty little bedroom and looked about him with a feeling of mingled awe and wonder. All of her intimate, exquisite belongings, the sanctified treasures of her most secret domain, were all about him.
He fingered the articles on her dressing-table; smelled of the perfume bottles and smiled as he recognised the sweet odours as being a part of her, and not a thing unto themselves; grinned delightedly at his own photograph in its silver frame that stood where she could see it the last thing at night and the first in the morning; caressed—aye, caressed—the little hand-mirror that had reflected her gay or troubled face so many times since the dear Christmas Day when he had given it to her with his love.
He stood beside her bed where she had stood, and the soft rug seemed to respond to the delightful tingling that ran through his bare feet. Her room! Her bed! Her domain!