She had stolen from her slippers, and was moving lightly over the deep Oriental rug, reveling in its velvety voluptuousness.
“I love the very feel of it,” she said, her face flushing in the first emotion she had shown him.
“Go back into the tapestry,” he said, with mock sternness, and half closing his eyes, he nodded approvingly, his glance following the flowing line of the deep-green silk skirt which turned from the graceful hip, the firm, dark neck rising above the youthful breast, and the forestlike wildness of the oval face.
She slipped her green-silk feet back into the slippers and said impulsively:
“It’s all just as I thought you would have it.”
“Oh, it is?” he said, enjoying her enthusiasm.
“Things you live with tell so much,” she said, moving curiously toward the chest.
“You’ve got some strange ideas about me,” he said grimly.
“I have the right one,” she said calmly. She laid her hand on the chest. “What’s hidden here?”
“So you can have curiosity, too?” he said, smiling, caught by the rare mood of enthusiasm, which seemed to waken sudden delicate flushes and sensitive emotions across the blue veil of her eyes and the finely turned upper lip.