Her laugh was once more an up-gushing gurgle. The tenseness was broken. I found myself walking by her side through the maples, and pointing out my house.
She clapped her hands ecstatically. “Oh,” she cried, “they made the front door out of a highboy! How jolly! Is it as nice inside?”
“It’s going to be nicer,” said I. “Come and see.”
“I’ll peep through the windows,” she smiled.
I led her to my new south door, proudly showing my new lawn and the terrace, and telling her where the roses were to be, and the sundial, and dilating on the work my own hands had done. With a silly, boyish enthusiasm, I even displayed the callouses and invited her to feel of them, which she did as one humours a child, while I thrilled quite unchildishly at the touch of her finger tips. Then we peeped through the glass doors. The low sun was streaming in through the west window and disclosed the old oak beam across the ceiling. Hard Cider had erected the frame of the bookcase and double settle, which would perfectly match the mantels as soon as the molding was on. One side of the settle faced toward one smoky old fireplace, the other toward the second.
“Two fireplaces! What luxury!” she exclaimed.
“You see,” said I, “when I get tired of reading philosophy at the east fireplace, I’ll just come around the corner and read ’Alice in Wonderland’ at the west chimney nook.”
“Double fireplaces–twin fireplaces–twin fires! That’s it, Twin Fires! That ought to be the name of your house.”
“You’re right!” I cried, delighted. “I’ve never been able to think of a name. That’s the inevitable one–that’s Flaubert’s one right word. You must come to my christening party and break a bottle of wine on the hearth.”
She smiled wistfully, as she turned away from the window. “I must surely go to supper,” she said. “Good-bye, and thank you for your wonderful concert.”