"Be careful," he warned, as she stooped to lay it in place. "Put it on gently. The sparks might fly, and that cobweb dress of yours——"
She laid the log across the other half-burnt sticks, and started back with a little cry as a dozen brilliant points of flame flew toward her.
"Don't do that again," he protested sternly, with nothing of the invalid in his voice. "I don't like to see you do such things when I couldn't stir to save you no matter what happened."
She stood looking down at him. "Jerry," she said, "I'll tell you why I stayed to-night. I wanted to talk with you about something. I want your help."
His eyes told her that he would give it if he could.
"Do you mind if I sit on a pillow here before the fire?" she asked, bringing one from the couch. Jerry had plenty of pillows. Since his breakdown every girl who had ever known him had sent him a fresh one.
"Somehow I can talk better," she explained.
She settled herself on her cushion, her blue skirts lying in light folds about her, her chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee.
"I always go straight to the point," she said. "I never know how to lead artfully up to a thing. Jerry, you know I go to Paris in January, to do some special work in illustrating?"
"Yes."