Then we were quiet a minute as we watched the spluttery little fire leap and die down, and then leap all over again. I twisted my new ring as I sat there, for it seemed strange—as well as nice—to wear it.
“Think,” I said, I was referring to Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake—“how long it can last—”
Sam moved his chair closer.
“Yes—” he said, in an undertone, “think of it—”
Then one of the long, French windows opened, and the wettest person I have ever seen came in, and she was followed by another one.
“Tea,” said Miss Sheila, “how very nice—” and her voice shook on every single word.
And then Mr. Wake said, “Ah, yes, tea!” just as if he had recently discovered the plant and the use for it.
“Have some,” I said, “and Miss Sheila, you’d better go put on one of Mr. Wake’s dressing gowns; he has a lavender one that would be beautiful on you—”
“What wouldn’t?” asked Mr. Wake.
“If you think she’s pretty now,” I said, “You just wait until she has dried off!”