I opened the door with my latch-key, and preceded him into my study.
CHAPTER IX.—JOSEPHINE WRITES.
A beautiful fire was blazing in the grate. The transition from the cold and uproar of the street, to the snug quiet and warmth of this cosy book-lined room, was an agreeable one, I can tell you. I was pretty well rested by this time; and, except for the tingling of my nose, ears, toes, and fingers, felt very little the worse for my encounter with the elements.
“Now,” said I to my guest, “the tables are turned. But a moment since, I was your prisoner; now you are mine. Draw up to the fire. Throw off your over jacket and your rubber-boots. I hope you are not wet through; for, we are built respectively upon such different patterns, it would be ironical for me to offer you dry garments from my wardrobe.”
“You need give yourself no uneasiness upon that score, sir. Im as dry as a Greek lexicon.”
“In that case, let me at once offer you a drop of something wet,” I said, producing a decanter and a couple of glasses.
“Yes,” he assented, “a toothful of this will do neither of us harm.”
We clinked our glasses, and drank.