Lizzie, long and limp in the easy chair, was sheltered from the lamp glow by the paper rose. She smiled and held out her hand and I saw he was shocked by the change in her, as well he might be. The only other time he had seen her was the night of the concert, the climax of that little day to which every dog of us is entitled.
All things that are frail and feeble appeal to Roger. Both he and Mrs. Ashworth get stiff and ice-bound before bumptious, full-fed, prosperous people. He sat down beside her and made himself very agreeable. And I was pleased, immensely pleased; could better endure the thought of Lizzie like a smashed flower if by her smashing she was to win his approval and interest.
As I made the tea I could hear their voices rising and falling. Coming up the passage with the tray the doorway framed them like a picture and I stopped and gazed admiringly. It was like the cover of a ten-cent magazine—a graceful woman and a personable man conversing elegantly in a gush of lamplight. The lamplight was necessary to the illusion, for it hid Roger’s wrinkles and made his gray hair look fair. He could easily have passed for the smooth-shaven, high-collared wooer, and Lizzie, languidly reclining with listening eyes, quite fittingly filled the rôle of wooee.
An hour afterward, as we went down-stairs, Roger was silent till we got to my door. Then he said:
“She seems very different from what she was that night when I saw her in your room.”
“She is different. You don’t seem to realize she’s been very sick.”
“Yes—but—”
I pushed open the door.
“Roger, aren’t you coming in?”
“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m going out to dinner and I have to go home and change.”