"Never mind me; I am a woman and can take care of myself. Why don't you go over to Norway and join Mr. Graham?"
"That's quite out of the question," he said, puffing furiously at his pipe. "I can't leave the paper."
"Oh, men always say that. Haven't you let your pipe go out? I don't see any smoke."
He started and laughed. "Yes, there's no more tobacco in it." He laid it down.
"No, I insist on your going on or else I shall feel uncomfortable.
Where's your pouch?"
He felt all over his pockets. "It must be on the table."
She rummaged among the mass of papers. "Ha! There are your scissors'" she said scornfully, turning them up. She found the pouch in time and handed it to him. "I ought to have the management of this office for a day," she remarked again.
"Well, fill my pipe for me," he said, with an audacious inspiration. He felt an unreasoning impulse to touch her hand, to smooth her soft cheek with his fingers and press her eyelids down over her dancing eyes. She filled the pipe, full measure and running over; he took it by the stem, her warm gloved fingers grazing his chilly bare hand and suffusing him with a delicious thrill.
"Now you must crown your work," he said. "The matches are somewhere about."
She hunted again, interpolating exclamations of reproof at the risk of fire.