She was altogether so joyous, so anticipatory, flying about the little kitchen, setting a table in front of the fire, for the apartment boasted a real fireplace, washing dishes, flinging gay comments about her, that she radiated it to the others. Langley’s face relaxed and he laughed as she had never seen him laugh. But after Grace had gone out a sudden shyness fell upon them both. Then Horatia slipped down before the fire on a hassock and Jim came to sit beside her.
“Tell me wise things,” she begged.
“It’s you who know wisdom.”
“I know how we shall live when we are married. I was thinking of it this afternoon. I want a place without too much household machinery—awfully few napkins and pillowcases. But such a happy sunny place—with lots of light and color. And I want to make you so comfortable but it won’t take all my time. I want to work too.”
“Working after you’re married is hard. I’m not sure——”
“It’s the only solution,” said Horatia firmly. “Otherwise you get soft. I want to work. To come home at night feeling tired and glad to get home—to meet you and not be bored with myself and my home.”
“I want to care for you, Horatia, as I have never cared for anything.”
“I don’t want care—I want love—love——”
A cloud came over Langley’s face—the faintest frowning cloud.
“Of course,” said Horatia somewhat irrelevantly, “even if I work, I don’t mean I shan’t want children. I do want them.”