“What the—”
“Devil—” concluded Grizel calmly, “but it isn’t. It’s me. Let me in, Martin! It’s a choice between you and buying cabbages in the rain. Katrine says so, and I should catch my death of cold.”
But the change in the man’s face was startling to behold. The scowl had vanished, had been wiped out of being at the first swift glance, and with it the fret, and the tire. The deep-set eyes glowed upon her, the hands stretched out.
“Grizel! Come in! Come in! I was just thinking. Wishing—”
Grizel floated past into the forbidden room, her glance as easily avoiding his as her hands escaped his grasp. There was nothing curt or forbidding in the evasion, she seemed simply oblivious of anything but a friendly warmth of manner; engrossed in an interested survey of the study itself. Her eyes roved round the book-lined walls, and rested brightening upon the old-fashioned hearth. The fire was laid. In a basket on one side of the hearth reposed a pile of resined logs. A copper vase obviously contained coal.
“Martin!” she cried eagerly, “let’s light up! I’ve been perished all morning. Katrine says I’m unsuitably dressed. I am, but I never dress to suit rooms. I heat them to suit me! Would you think the room unbearably stuffy if we had a fire?”
“Not a bit of it! I often do. Sitting at a desk is chilly work.”
He was already on his knees, posing logs scientifically over the paper and wood, balancing small pieces of coal on the top. In an incredibly short time a cheerful blaze was illuminating the room, and Grizel, kicking off small brown shoes, was crinkling her toes before the fire. Martin drew forward a second chair and seated himself beside her, in apparent forgetfulness of the papers scattered over the desk.
“What a shame that you should be so chilled! Why haven’t you had a fire downstairs?”
“Katrine preferred exercise. She recommended a flannel shirt, and an expedition to buy cabbages. British and bracing. Can you imagine me, Martin, buying cabbages, in the rain, in a flannel shirt?”