She pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord, and the old-fashioned North Country landlady came—tall, thin, parchment-faced, musty-looking as though she had been dressed up in Victorian garments in 1880 and left to stand in an unaired parlor ever since. She glowered silent disapproval at the presence of Mr. Wrenn in Istra’s room, but sent a slavey to make the fire—“saxpence uxtry.” Mr. Wrenn felt guilty till the coming of the slavey, a perfect Christmas-story-book slavey, a small and merry lump of soot, who sang out, “Chilly t’-night, ayn’t it?” and made a fire that was soon singing “Chilly t’-night,” like the slavey.
Istra sat on the floor before the fire, Turk-wise, her quick delicate fingers drumming excitedly on her knees.
“Come sit by me. You, with your sense of the romantic, ought to appreciate sitting by the fire. You know it’s always done.”
He slumped down by her, clasping his knees and trying to appear the dignified American business man in his country-house.
She smiled at him intimately, and quizzed:
“Tell me about the last time you sat with a girl by the fire. Tell poor Istra the dark secret. Was she the perfect among pink faces?”
“I’ve—never—sat—before—any—fireplace—with —any—one! Except when I was about nine—one Hallowe’en—at a party in Parthenon—little town up York State.”
“Really? Poor kiddy!”
She reached out her hand and took his. He was terrifically conscious of the warm smoothness of her fingers playing a soft tattoo on the back of his hand, while she said:
“But you have been in love? Drefful in love?”