The Little Nugget

by P. G. Wodehouse

The music stopped. I heard the drawing-room door open. She came into the study.

'I didn't know there was anyone here,' she said. 'I'm frozen. The drawing-room fire's out.'

'Come and sit down,' I said. 'You don't mind the smoke?'

I drew a chair up to the fire for her, feeling, as I did so, a certain pride. Here I was, alone with her in the firelight, and my pulse was regular and my brain cool. I had a momentary vision of myself as the Strong Man, the strong, quiet man with the iron grip on his emotions. I was pleased with myself.

She sat for some minutes, gazing into the fire. Little spurts of flame whistled comfortably in the heart of the black-red coals. Outside the storm shrieked faintly, and flurries of rain dashed themselves against the window.

'It's very nice in here,' she said at last.

'Peaceful.'

I filled my pipe and re-lit it. Her eyes, seen for an instant in the light of the match, looked dreamy.

'I've been sitting here listening to you,' I said. 'I liked that last thing you played.'

'You always did.'