The Pursuit of the Ideal[ToC]
Freda's snuggery was aglow with the rose-red splendour of an open fire which was triumphantly warding off the stealthy approaches of the dull grey autumn twilight. Roger St. Clair stretched himself out luxuriously in an easy-chair with a sigh of pleasure.
"Freda, your armchairs are the most comfy in the world. How do you get them to fit into a fellow's kinks so splendidly?"
Freda smiled at him out of big, owlish eyes that were the same tint as the coppery grey sea upon which the north window of the snuggery looked.
"Any armchair will fit a lazy fellow's kinks," she said.
"I'm not lazy," protested Roger. "That you should say so, Freda, when I have wheeled all the way out of town this dismal afternoon over the worst bicycle road in three kingdoms to see you, bonnie maid!"
"I like lazy people," said Freda softly, tilting her spoon on a cup of chocolate with a slender brown hand.
Roger smiled at her chummily.
"You are such a comfortable girl," he said. "I like to talk to you and tell you things."
"You have something to tell me today. It has been fairly sticking out of your eyes ever since you came. Now, 'fess."