“You!” said Le Moyne. “Why, welcome home.”
He smiled down at her, his kindly eyes lighting.
“It's good to be home and to see you again. Won't you come in to my fire?”
“I'm wet.”
“All the more reason why you should come,” she cried gayly, and held the door wide.
The little parlor was cheerful with fire and soft lamps, bright with silver vases full of flowers. K. stepped inside and took a critical survey of the room.
“Well!” he said. “Between us we have made a pretty good job of this, I with the paper and the wiring, and you with your pretty furnishings and your pretty self.”
He glanced at her appreciatively. Christine saw his approval, and was happier than she had been for weeks. She put on the thousand little airs and graces that were a part of her—held her chin high, looked up at him with the little appealing glances that she had found were wasted on Palmer. She lighted the spirit-lamp to make tea, drew out the best chair for him, and patted a cushion with her well-cared-for hands.
“A big chair for a big man!” she said. “And see, here's a footstool.”
“I am ridiculously fond of being babied,” said K., and quite basked in his new atmosphere of well-being. This was better than his empty room upstairs, than tramping along country roads, than his own thoughts.