“Then I may as well go and dress,” Norah said.
She had just finished when a quick step came along the corridor, and stopped at her door. Jim’s fingers beat the tattoo that was always their signal.
“Come in, Jimmy,” Norah cried.
He came in, looming huge in the dainty little room.
“Good business—you’re dressed,” he said. “Can I come and yarn?”
“Rather,” said Norah, beaming. “Come and sit down in my armchair. This electric heater isn’t as jolly to yarn by as a good old log fire, but still, it’s something.” She pulled her chair forward.
“Can’t you wait for me to do that—bad kid!” said Jim. He sat down, and Norah subsided on the rug near him.
“Now tell me all about everything,” he said. “How are things going?”
“Quite well—especially Mrs. Atkins,” said Norah. “In fact she’s gone!”
Jim sat up.