“Are your eyes closed?”
“Yes.”
“Tight?”
“Tight!”
“Well——” She looked about her. The room was dim save for the gleam of the little flames, and silent save for the beating of her heart and Phillip’s. Outside the windows the snow was banked high and the swirling flakes still fell with a queer little subdued rustle against the panes. She leaned over the chair and put her head close to his.
“Phil!”
“Yes, Betty?”
“I’m sorry I was mean,” she whispered. Then, “Remember your hands!”
He refolded them with a sigh.
“Are your eyes closed tight, Phil?”