“Now,” he said, “we can ring up for the first act.”
She filled the tea-pot and held it for a moment, and then set it down as though her feelings were too much for her.
“I feel as if I were in a dream,” she quavered happily. “I do indeed.”
“But it’s a nice one, ain’t it?” he answered. “I feel as if I was in two. Sitting here in this big room with all these fine things about me, and having afternoon tea with a relation! It just about suits me. It didn’t feel like this yesterday, you bet your life!”
“Does it seem—nicer than yesterday?” she ventured. “Really, Mr. Temple Barholm?”
“Nicer!” he ejaculated. “It’s got yesterday beaten to a frazzle.”
It was beyond all belief. He was speaking as though the advantage, the relief, the happiness, were all on his side. She longed to enlighten him.
“But you can’t realize what it is to me,” she said gratefully, “to sit here, not terrified and homeless and—a beggar any more, with your kind face before me. Do forgive me for saying it. You have such a kind young face, Mr. Temple Barholm. And to have an easy-chair and cushions, and actually a buffet brought for your feet!” She suddenly recollected herself. “Oh, I mustn’t let your tea get cold,” she added, taking up the tea-pot apologetically. “Do you take cream and sugar, and is it to be one lump or two?”
“I take everything in sight,” he replied joyously, “and two lumps, please.”
She prepared the cup of tea with as delicate a care as though it had been a sacramental chalice, and when she handed it to him she smiled wistfully.