His ring sounded; the maid admitted him to the outer hall, took his hat and coat, and ushered him in. Diana rose to receive him with smiling composure as the maid retired to the bedroom.
"This is very prompt of you, Jim—-and promptness is the most subtle of flatteries.... How thin and white you look! ... Are you perfectly well?"
"Perfectly. I need not ask that question of you, Rose of the Berkshires!"
"Do I really look well?"
"Flawless and dewy fresh—a trifle slim, perhaps. Don't they keep you in pheasants?"
"They do, kind sir. It's fashion, not slenderness, you behold. Never mind how it's accomplished. But, Jim, you don't look well. Are they working you to death?"
"Not so you'd notice my decease," he said laughingly. "I'm in the game, up to the neck, and swimming strongly. It's a fine game, Diana. No doubt generations of Edgertons on high look down on me and sing in unison the Anvil Chorus. It's a great game—this iron one. The iron is in me; I'm lanced through and through—it's flowing in my blood; it's in my bones. Iron! iron! There is nothing to compare with it in all the world, Diana."
"Let me see your arm, Jim."
"Shall I take off my coat and——"
"No; I'll just feel it—very gently."