“What is there?” I asked, pointing to the flames.
She looked around, with a half-wistful little smile. “You are not making up that lost hour,” she answered.
“But the room was so still,” said I, “that I wondered where you were.”
“Perhaps I was many miles away,” she replied. “Do you want me to make a noise?”
“You might sing for me.”
“I should hate to make the thrush jealous. No, my accomplishments cease with philology. I’m very happy here, really. You must go back to your work.”
I went back, and read a few more pages of the silly novel.
“This story is so silly I really think it would be a success,” I called out.
A head peeped up at me over the settle. “You aren’t working,” she reproached. “I’m going away, so you won’t have me to talk to.”
“Very well, I’ll go with you,” I cried, slamming the manuscript into a drawer. “I’ll come down here and work after supper.”