The room was aglow with flickering firelight, and out of the glow a high
voice came--a cheery, inconsequent voice.
"Oh, here you are at last! Come right in and light the lamp. Did you see
my card? Ah, I knew you would be sure to look at yourself directly you
came in. There's nobody at home but me. I suppose your old woman's gone
to church. I've been waiting for you such a while--twelve years and a
bit. Just think of it."
She was standing on the hearth waiting for him, but since he moved but
slowly she stepped forward to meet him, her hand impetuously
outstretched.
He took it, held it closely, let it go.
"We must talk things over," he said.
"Splendid!" said Cynthia. "Where shall we begin? Never mind the lamp.
Let's sit by the fire and be cosy."
He moved forward with her--it was impossible to do otherwise--but there
was no yielding in his action. He held himself as straight and stiff as
a soldier on parade. He had bitten through his cigarette, and he tossed
it into the fire.
"Now sit down!" said Cynthia hospitably. "That chair is for you, and I
am going to curl up on the floor at your feet as becomes a dutiful
wife."
"Don't, Cynthia!" he said under his breath. But she had her way,
nevertheless. There were times when she seemed able to attain this with
scarcely an effort.
She seated herself on the hearthrug with her face to the fire.
"Go on," she said, in a tone of gentle encouragement; "I'm listening.
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