She came at last—a slim figure on the dark stairs, gown of blue-embroidered white silk, bare of neck and arm, the gold clasps in her hair sparkling in the firelight as she seated herself on the low settle by the fire opposite to where I sat on the couch, wherein not so long before I had been a prisoner tied by the leg.
“No work to-night, Shahzadi?” I questioned. She sat there most evenings—her deft fingers busy with one or other of the endless sewing jobs that every really home-loving woman seems always to have on hand.
“No. I don’t feel like sewing to-night.”
“What do you feel like, then, lady of the red-gold locks?”
“Like sitting by the fire—and just—well, looking at it—and thinking.”
“Then we feel alike. I’ve been doing that, too. There was only one thing lacking.”
“What was that?”
“You to look at.”
“Does that help your thinking process?”
“Quite a lot. In fact, I’ve got to the stage of not being able to think sensibly without having you to look at.”