An end of a lace scarf she was wearing caught in a nail in the wall. He sprang forward to release the scarf. It was not readily done, for his fingers became infected with a strange nervousness. Once their hands met, their fingers almost interlocked. A curious little thrill went through him. He lifted his eyes involuntarily, and met her glance. A warm colour shot swiftly into her face. And he was conscious at the same moment that his own cheeks burned.
“I guess I’ll sit down before I do any more mischief,” she laughed.
Woman-like, she was quicker to get at ease than he was.
“Do you know, Mr. Hammond,” she went on, as she seated herself in a revolving armchair, “I just wanted very much to see how you were fixed up here, and how you looked now that you are a big man.”
He made a deprecatory little gesture.
“Oh, but you are a really great man,” she went on. “I have heard some big people talk of you, and say——”
She leaned back, and smiled merrily at him, as she went on,
“Well, I guess if there’s only a shadow of truth in the old saying, then your ears must often have burned.”
Madge Finisterre gave the chair in which she was sitting a half twist.
“Why don’t you British people go in for rockers?” she asked. “I simply can’t enjoy your English homes to the full, for want of a good rocker, wherever I go.”