of darkness.

When she came down again, in a rose-colored silk tea-gown trimmed
with creamy lace, she was still more entrancing. She brought with her
into the room an atmosphere of delicate perfume. Harry had stopped
smoking entirely nowadays. Ida had persuaded him that it was bad for
him. She had said nothing about the expense, as his first wife had
been accustomed to do. Therefore there was no tobacco smoke to dull
his sensibilities to this delicate perfume. It was as if a living
rose had entered the room. Ida sank gracefully into a chair opposite
him. She was wondering how she could easily lead up to the subject in
her mind. There was much diplomacy, on a very small and selfish
scale, about Ida. She realized the expediency of starting from
apparently a long distance, to establish her sequences in order to
maintain the appearance of unpremeditativeness.

"Isn't it a little too warm here, dear?" said she, presently, in the
voice which alone she could not control. Whenever she had an entirely
self-centred object in mind, an object which might possibly meet with
opposition, as now, her voice rang harsh and lost its singing quality.

Harry did not seem to notice it. He started up immediately. The
portieres between the room and the vestibule were drawn. He had, in
fact, felt somewhat chilly. It was a cold day, and he had a touch of
the grip. "I will open the portieres, dear," he said. "I dare say you
are right."

"I noticed it when I first came in," said Ida. "I meant to draw the
portieres apart myself, but going out through the library I forgot
it. Thank you, dear. How is your cold?"