It was the last Sunday in November, the first Sunday in Advent, and Cis and Rodney were happily on their way to look at the three chairs of unusual design, and the beautiful mahogany table which, so Rodney delighted to put it to Cis, he “had sent home.”
The day enveloped them with the caresses of Saint Martin’s Summer; warm sunshine; gentle air that brushed over them as they walked, like wings that bore blessings; a cloudless sky, veiled with hazy warmth that softened, yet did not conceal the bright blue that stretched from horizon to horizon.
“The winter of our discontent is turned glorious summer by our sunny walk,” said Rodney, making an attempt to retain the sound and not the sense of the quotation which was lost on Cis. “Almost December first, only two days distant, and even this light-weight overcoat a burden! It’s what my grandmother used to call a weather-breeder.”
“I don’t see why people want to take the polish off of a day like this!” cried Cis. “A day like this is a present from heaven, and I don’t like to look a gift horse in the mouth. Rory O’Moore, don’t you think it came just to rejoice with us and strew our path to our new little home?”
“Like a wedding flower girl? Oh, Cicely, you bride of brides! I’d think any day would smile and look pleasant when it came up at dawn to find us together,” Rodney spoke with a little laugh in his voice, but it trembled too.
The apartment did not include many rooms, but they were—for apartment rooms—spacious. There were two excellent bedrooms, a small room for the maid, and its accompanying bath at the rear, a small kitchen, a pretty dining room, and a really fine living room, besides a tiled bathroom which was so white, so modern and perfect in its appointments that Cis found herself unexpectedly housewifely every time that she saw it. Mentally she screwed bright nickle fixtures upon the slabs built in for them, and hung heavily initialled towels upon glass rods, as she stood in the doorway, taking in the details of this room devoted to the practice of the virtue which is next to godliness.
“I’m going to turn out well, Rory O’Moore!” Cis announced, swinging around to face Rodney, who had come up behind her and placed his hands upon her shoulders. “You always knew I’d be agreeable to have around, but you never dreamed I’d be a real, dyed-in-the-wool domestic character! Neither did I, but I shall be; I feel it coming on! I yearn to scrub this white floor and polish the faucets! The kitchen, with that white sink and draining board, and the cunning cupboard, goes to my head till it fairly spins with rapture! Oh, Rod, it’s the sweetness of doing for you! I’ve been half scared to be married, even to you, but this apartment takes it all out of me! It’s home and home-making; it’s living for, and with, and in each other! Oh, my Rod, I’m not afraid, I’m not! I’m glad, glad I’m coming here to be with you, and scrub your rooms, and wash your dishes!”
“Holly, my blessed Holly!” Rodney breathed the words almost inaudibly into Cicely’s ear, all that was fine in him moved and awed before her sweetness.
Voluntarily Cis threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, and caresses were rare with her, yielded only to his implorations. Rodney understood that she was betrothing herself anew, and he met her spirit in tune with it. Why did he fear to tell her his secret? This rare, deep-hearted Cicely would not fail him for a chimera!
The new table awakened little less than rapture in Cis; it was exactly to her mind. The three chairs no less; deep-seated, low, at once “impressive and home chairs,” Cis pronounced them.