"No, dearest," he said,'surprised. "What is it?"
She came forward, and hung beside him, fingering the pen that he had laid down. She had put on her dressing-gown, and her hair was loose. She was very lovely, very youthful so; she looked like a child playing at being a woman. The sleeves fell away, giving a glimpse of the delicate forearms, and he thought the softness of the neck she displayed seemed made for a parent's kisses.
"How cold it is!" she murmured; "don't you feel cold?"
"You shouldn't have come in," he said; "you'll take a chill. You'd be better off in bed, Baby."
She shook her head.
"I want to stop."
"Then, let me get you a rug and wrap you up." He rose, but she stayed him petulantly.
"I don't want you to go away; I want to speak to you.... Humphrey——"
"Is anything the matter?"
"I've something to tell you." She pricked the paper nervously with the nib. "Something ... can't you guess what it is, Humphrey? Think—it's about me."