A footfall below, and the glimpse of a grey figure in the light of the street-lamp, brought him to immediate action. He drew back from the window, and, trembling with excitement, put a match to the circle of coloured candles.
A ring of fire leapt into being—a tiny flame for every year of her in whose honour they were burnt in offering.
Standing behind the lights, and almost invisible in the twinkling glare, Wynne waited breathlessly for the door to open.
She was drawing off her gloves as she came into the room, but she stopped, and her hands fell gently to her sides. Her eyes rested on every detail of the little scene, hovering over it with an exquisite increase of lustre. And slowly her lips broke into a smile of the purest child-happiness, as, with a little catch in her voice, she breathed:
“How lovely and dear of you.”
It was hard to find a reply.
“You’re pleased?” he said. “I’m glad.”
“Pleased! Look! there are two presents for me—real champagne, with its livery all bright and goldy—and the bloom on the grapes, it’s—that’s a proper birthday cake, with ‘marzi’ inside—and twenty-one candles because I am twenty-one years old today.”
She held out her hand, and he came to her and took it in one of his. For quite a while they stood in silence.
“This is my first real birthday, and you’ve thought of it all for me. Oh, it is wonderful, you know.”