Aurora, smiling all the time with the pleasure she felt in not finding him angry or estranged or in any way altered toward her, took the arm-chair from which he had just risen, while he drew a lighter chair to the other side of the chimney-place. His fires were not like hers. Two half-burned sticks and a form of turf smoldered sparingly on a mound of hot ashes; he eagerly cast on a fagot, and added wood with, for once, an extravagant hand. Then, looking over at her, he smiled, too.
Gerald turned, and beheld that lady
276“Now tell me all about yourself,” she commanded. “I want to know what you’re doing for this cold of yours.”
“Please let us not talk about my cold,” he at once refused. “Let us talk about something agreeable. Tell me the news. I have not seen any one for days. I have been living in Russia with a poor young man who had committed a murder, also with a most sympathetic being who found the world outside an institution for the feeble-minded too much for him.” By a gesture toward the books on the table he gave her a clue to his meaning.
“You say you haven’t seen any one for days,” she said. “Now the Fosses, for instance, who are your best friends, don’t you let them know when you’re shut in?”
“You have no conception, evidently, of my bearishness, dear friend. They have. They never wonder when they do not see me or hear from me for weeks.”
“I know, and it seems funny; it seems sort of forlorn to me. I saw them the other day and asked if any one had seen you since the night of the show. They said no, but didn’t seem to think anything about it.”
“It’s not really long since then. How are they all?”
“All right, and busy as bees. They’ve no time to come and see me, or anybody else, I guess. Brenda’s coming back to be married in May, and they’re flying round getting her things ready. All her linen is being beautifully embroidered....”