She was standing by the fire, bending over a pair of socks that she had been washing out. She was hanging them in front of the fire, pulling out the toes. Her eyes looked at him inquiringly as her fingers went on stretching the little toes.
“Did you find them?”
“Yes.” He opened his paper slowly. She went on fussing at the socks, a little, absent smile on her face. “If it keeps on like this I must get heavier flannels for them,” she said. The look in her face was very sweet as she bent over the small socks.
He looked up—and glanced away. “Money enough—have you?”
“Oh, yes—plenty of money. I will get them to-morrow—if I can go in to town—” she said.
His mind flashed to the attic above them and to the quiet alcove with the little green curtains that shut it off. “Better dress warm if you do go,” he said carelessly. “It is pretty cold, you know.” He took up the paper and stared at it.
VII
SO it was—Rosalind! He sat in his office and stared at the blotter on his desk.... It was a green blotter——-For years after Eldridge Walcott could not see a green blotter without a little, sudden sense of upheaval; he would walk into a plain commercial office—suddenly the walls hovered, the furniture moved subtly—even the floor grew a little unsteady before he could come with a jerk to a green blotter on the roller-top desk—and face it squarely. The blotter on his own desk was exchanged for a crimson one—the next day. He would have liked to change everything in the room. The very furniture seemed to mock him—to question....