omitted no detail. As far as I understand, when I left them he was
standing with his right foot on the fender and the other on the rug,
and his elbow on the mantelpiece. She was sitting in the easy chair to
the left of the fireplace, in the full glow of the shaded lamp,
knitting a jumper. There was a pause and then he began, 'You never
seem idle for a minute. How nimble your fingers are!'

Marion knitted a little harder.

'I have always hoped,' he went on, 'that the woman I married would be
fond of her needle. There is something so restful in the idea of
coming home in the evening to see one's companion sitting at the
fireside engaged in such womanly tasks.'

Marion said that, no doubt, after a hard day at assessing, such a sight
would be soothing to a man.

He now came and sat beside her. 'I want to ask you something rather
important,' he said, 'but I wonder if I have known you long enough to
warrant it.'

She paused in her knitting for a moment to remind him--very
earnestly--that real friendship and understanding is more a matter of
affinity than actual length of acquaintance.

'You're right,' he said, pondering, 'and, of course, you're so . . . so
sensible.'

Women hate to be told they are sensible by any one but their
mothers-in-law. But how could an assessor know that? He continued to