“I am very glad to see you. Will you walk into my parlor, Mr. Fly?”
The one tall candle in the china candlestick was the only light in the room. She set it upon the table, saying, “Excuse me, and I will bring a light, that we may the better look at each other. The light of other days is hardly sufficient.”
“It is enough for me,” he said, pushing the ottoman towards one of the low arm-chairs. “Sit down and I will take the ottoman. The parrot recognizes me.”
Her hand moved nervously on the arm of her chair; the hand was larger now than when it had spilled ink on his copy-book, larger even than when it had written her first, shy, proud, indignant refusal.
“You are not the tempest you used to be,” he said smiling after a survey of her face.
“Wasn’t I a tempest? I have outgrown my little breezes. In time I may become as gentle as a zephyr.”
“You always were gentle enough.”
“Not to you.”
“Not to me when I tormented you.”
“Probably I should not be gentle if I were tormented now.”