He looked for no response to his greeting. Mrs. Warrener understood this, and made none.
Warrener went upstairs to his study.
“Gracious, Gert, some one’s left the window open in my den! It’s like ice here!”
“It’ll get hot enough. Turn on the steam.”
Mrs. Warrener followed her husband upstairs into the cold little room. The smell of stale smoke seemed to have frozen on the air, but over it the smell of the cigar the gentleman had smoked, a peculiar aroma, as new to her, as delicious, as would have been a priceless perfume, came to her nostrils. She went to her chair where she had sat for hours reading, and picked up her book, which she kept in her hand.
“What have you been doing all day, Gert?” he asked at dinner, after he had eaten his tepid soup and drunk an entire glass of ice water.
“Oh, I don’t know—nothing much.”
“Nothin’ doin’? Well, you are in luck! I feel as if something was doin’ in every inch of my body. I’m tired out. Harkweather kept the clerks down to-night—they won’t get out before nine o’clock; but I said ‘not tonight for me. I’m goin’ home.’ And I’m goin’ right to bed. I guess I’ll sleep twelve hours, all right!”
As they went upstairs, he first and she slowly following, she suggested:
“How would you like me to sleep in the spare room, if you’re so tired?”