“To me it is like the chill of death.” The candles shook in his hand as he spoke.
“Perhaps you have taken cold,” and with stately indifference she moved on toward the stairs.
“Proximity of a Boston iceberg more likely.” But this was not spoken aloud.
Upstairs, when about to take his departure, Pats was still shivering. As he stood for a moment before the embers in the big open fireplace at the end of the cottage, his eyes rested upon a chest near by, with a rug and a cushion on the top, evidently used as a lounge by the owner. After hesitating a moment, he asked:
“Would you object to my occupying the top of that chest, just for to-night?”
As she turned toward him he detected a straightening of the figure and the now familiar loftiness of manner which he knew to be unfailing signs of anger–or contempt. Possibly both.
104“Certainly not. If you have a cold, it is better you should remain near the fire. I have no objections to sleeping in that other house. You say there is another house.”
“Oh, yes! There is another house,” he hastened to explain. “And it’s plenty good enough. Of course I shall go there. I beg your pardon for suggesting anything else. I forgot my resolve. I didn’t realize what I was doing.”
“I prefer going there myself,” she said, rapidly. “I much prefer it.”
And she turned toward the chamber to make arrangements for departure. But Pats stepped forward and said, decisively, and in a tone that surprised her: