“There is no hurry. I'm going with you. I want you to see how the little room lights up. I've never seen it by firelight, and I'll have my house-warming to-night!”
“Oh no, indeed! I must go back. There's the five o'clock whistle, now!”
“Well, we've an hour yet. You must get warm before you go.”
He went out, and quickly returned with an armful of wood and shavings, which he crammed into the cold fireplace.
“What a litter you have made! Do you think your mature angel from the valley will stand that sort of thing?”
As she spoke, the rain descended in violence, sweeping across the piazza, and obliterating the fast-fading landscape. They could scarcely see each other in the darkness, and the trampling on the roof overhead made speech a useless effort. Almost as suddenly as it had opened upon them the tumult ceased, and in the silence that followed they listened to the heavy raindrops spattering from the eaves.
Arnold crossed to the window, where Miss Frances stood shivering and silent, with her hands clasped before her.
“I want you to light my fire,” he said, with a certain concentration in his voice.
“Why do you not light it yourself?” She drew away from his outstretched hand. “It seems to me you are a bit of a tyrant in your own house.”
He drew a match across his knee and held it towards her: by its gleam she saw his pale, unsmiling face, and again that darkening of the eyes which she remembered.