She pointed her remark by dropping into one of the two great chairs before the fire. Her aunt, panting a little from the ascent of the stairs, had already deposited her rather plump figure in the other.
“But I'm a hard-working young man, as you can see,” he replied, with a gesture toward the table.
“Is that where you grind out the things the magazines reject?” asked Edna. “Oh, don't light up. The firelight is just right; isn't it, auntie?”
“Charming,” said Aunt Clara, still panting. “You must miss an elevator in the house, Mr. Larcher.”
“If it would assure me of more visits like this, I'd move to where there was one. You can't imagine how refreshing it is, in the midst of the lonely grind, to have you come in and brighten things up.”
“We're keeping you from your work, Tommy,” said Edna, with sudden seriousness, whether real or mock he could not tell.
“Not a bit of it. I throw it over for the day. Shall I have some tea made for you? Or will you take some wine?”
“No, thanks; we've just had tea.”
“I think a glass of wine would be good for me after that climb,” suggested Aunt Clara. Larcher hastened to serve her, and then brought a chair for himself.
“I just came in to tell you what I've discovered,” said Edna. “Mr. Turl is in love with Florence Kenby!”