I was worked off my legs, and two or three times was obliged to deny
myself in replying to notes from Dora suggesting Sunday breakfast or
afternoon tea. Finally, I shook myself free; it was the day she
wrote:

'You must come--I can't keep it to myself any longer.'

I half thought Armour would be there, but he wasn't; that is, he was
absent corporeally, but the spirit and expression of him littered
every convenient part. Some few things lay about that I had seen in
the studio, to call it so, but most of the little wooden panels
looked fresh, almost wet, and the air held strongly the fragrance of
Armour's north veranda. In one corner there used to be a Madonna on
a carved easel; the Madonna stood on the floor, and the easel with
working pegs in it held an unfinished canvas. Dora sat in the midst
with a distinct flush--she was inclined to be sallow--and made me
welcome in terms touched with extravagance. She did not rush,
however, upon the matter that was dyeing her cheeks, and I showed
myself as little impetuous. She poured out the tea, and we sat
there inhaling, as it were, the aroma of the thing, while keeping it
consciously in the background.

I imagine there was no moment in the time I describe when we enjoyed
Ingersoll Armour so much as at this one, when he lay in his nimbus
half known and wholly suppressed, between us. There were later
instances, perhaps, of deeper satisfaction, but they were more or
less perplexed, and not unobscured by anxiety. That afternoon it
was all to know and to be experienced, with just a delicious
foretaste.