—Why am I not surprised? Christopher Johns stepped into the room, shut the door.
She gazed at him silent.
“You don’t mind?” he asked. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d look in. The lady downstairs ... what a dear old lady!... said you were out: I could knock if I wanted to be sure.”
“Sit down.”
He took off his coat and laid it on the couch. It crowded nearly the whole couch. He sat down.
“I’m glad I found you in. This is a nice room,” he said. “Do they give you enough heat now winter’s coming?”
She went on darning.
“More heat than I’m used to at home.”
“Where is your home?”
“I have no home.”