“The last time I lit it you said the room was stuffy.”
“But then it was beautiful blazing sunshine, you illogical woman,” I exclaimed, searching my pockets for a match-box.
I struck a match. To apply it to the fire I had to kneel by her chair. She stretched out her hand—she has delicate white hands with slender fingers—and lightly touched my head.
“How long have we known each other?” she asked.
“About eight years.”
“And how long shall we go on?”
“As long as you like,” said I, intent on the fire.
Judith withdrew her hand. I knelt on the hearthrug until the merry blaze and crackle of the wood assured me of successful effort.
“These are capital grates,” I said, cheerfully, drawing a comfortable arm-chair to the front of the fire.
“Excellent,” she replied, in a tone devoid of interest.