‘I think it is rather chilly this evening,’ said Nita, letting him fold the little shawl round her shoulders. ‘Autumn will soon be here; and then a day in Lancashire without sun is always cold, no matter what the time of the year may be.’
‘So it seems,’ replied John, who had gone on his knees before the grate, and removing a bowl filled with peacock’s feathers, disclosed what is known, in Lancashire at any rate, as ‘a cold fire,’ laid ready in the grate.
‘Where are the matches?’ he asked, finding them. He struck one, watched the flame, and then came and sat down beside Nita.
‘I will stay till it has burned up,’ said he. ‘Nothing is more cheerful than a good fire, and nothing more dismal than one just struggling into existence.’
‘How kind you are, John,’ said Nita, looking up at him gratefully.
‘Pooh! Who would be otherwise to such a desolate-looking little person as you are? I suppose your father will come by the ten o’clock train?’
‘I expect so. Oh, how nice that blaze is! I shall be quite happy now, with this novel. It is one of those which you brought me from London.’
‘Which I understood you were not going to read.’
‘Oh, but I am. I am very much interested in it; and—don’t you think Mr. Wellfield will be expecting you? He will be lonely in his new house.’
‘It will do him no harm if he is. But I see you want me to be off. Now, look here, Nita, don’t fret; there’s nothing in this life worth fretting about.’