Mr. Lorimer's eyes vanished in an unctuous smile. "Thou idle
flatterer!" he said.

"No, indeed, dear," his wife protested. "I think you are always
impressive, especially at the end of your sermons. That pause you make
before you turn your face to the altar--it seems to me so effective--so,
if one may say it, dramatic."

"To what request is this the prelude?" enquired Mr. Lorimer, emerging
from his smile.

She laughed a little nervous laugh. Her thin face was flushed. "Shall we
sit by the fire, Stephen, as we used to that first happy winter--do you
remember?--after we were married?"

"Dear me!" said Mr. Lorimer. "This sounds like a plunge into sentiment."

Nevertheless he rose with a tolerant twinkle and seated himself in the
large easy-chair before the fire. It was the only really comfortable
chair in the room. He kept it for his moments of reflection.

Mrs. Lorimer sat down at his feet on the fender-curb, her tiny hand still
clinging to his. "This is a real treat," she said, laying her head
against his knee with a gesture oddly girlish. "It isn't often, is it,
that we have it all to ourselves?"

"What is it you have to say to me?" he enquired.

She drew his hand down gently over her shoulder, and held it against her
cheek. There fell a brief silence, then she said with a slight effort: