"Fire now," he exclaimed.
Stoking and poking up the glow, he soon produced a first-class blaze.
"O-o-h!" she sighed rapturously, holding her little white hands to the warmth. She shot him a grateful and admiring glance—each glance meant to kill. "O-o-h, that's lovely."
"I'll get the brandy," he said.
She watched his tall, soldierly figure in its smart mess dress as he delved into a little cupboard. While he searched, she surveyed the room with eager interest. It was terribly bare, to her view, rigidly severe, eloquent of the hard, cold, lonely life the man led. She knew what it lacked—the feminine touch!—to make it a home! She would have filled it with gew-gaws and knick-knacks tied with scented pink ribbon.
One thing she noted, with peculiar satisfaction—there was not one photo of a young or fairly young woman to be seen.
He had found the brandy. Turning, he looked at her a moment. She read admiration in his eyes and suddenly felt that she must look adorably attractive—smiling wistfully in return, so small in the big chair, hair aglow, eyes very soft, white arms drooping, lustrous pink ball-dress spread out like the train of a Queen all round her.
She was the reincarnation of the original Eve, with the voice of the serpent in her ears—the serpent had a voice in Paradise.
So for a moment, neither moved nor spoke. Then he broke the little spell.
"Good stuff, this." He moved to the table and poured out a full-sized whack. "Drink it up."