“Hello,” she said. “I am glad you came. I’m lazy this afternoon.” Tom folded his coat away in the little bedroom. It had the air of a cell. The white walls were bare, the white iron bed was narrow; a small pack of books stood in the corner of the floor.
“You take it easy,” he said, already at the task, “and I’ll prepare you some Turkish coffee. Have you any of that orange essence left?”
He was adept and he needed to ask no further questions.
They settled and sipped and talked. Cornelia was on the couch. Tom squatted on the floor. Both of them had lighted cigarettes.
“Well, what adventure?” she asked.
She looked more than the three years older that she was. She wore an unembroidered smock—a dull, muslin drab. Her feet were sandaled. Her hair was drawn tight back over her head, where it could not interfere with work. Her eyes were soft in the harsh angles of her face.
“I was on a vacation, Cornelia. You know that means that I took care nothing should happen to me.”
She laughed. “That efficient you’re not, dear boy.”
“Well, there was no semblance of adventure. I tramped and drank a lot of glorious milk and slept nine hours a night.”
“And——?”