"Tie it closer," she commanded. "You had a cold last night, and it is worse tonight. Tuck it in close about your neck."
David made the attempt. He was not thinking.
"This way!" And Gabriella showed him by using her fingers around her own neck and collar.
He tried again and failed, standing before her with a mingling of embarrassment and stubborn determination.
"That will never do!" she cried with genuine concern. She took hold of the comforter by the ends and drew the knot up close to his throat, he lifting his head to receive it as it came. Then David with his eyes on the ceiling felt his coat collar turned up and her soft warm fingers tucking the comforter in around his neck. When he looked down, she was standing over by the fireplace.
"Good night," she said positively, with a quick gesture of dismissal as she saw the look in his eyes.
Each of the million million men who made up the past of David, that moment reached a hand out of the distance and pushed him forward. But of them all there was none so helpless with modesty,—so in need of hiding from every eye,—even his own,—the sacred annals of that moment.
He was standing by the table on which burned the candles. He bent down quickly and blew them out and went over to her by the dim firelight.