She stood hesitating in the doorway leading to the apartment of
herself and her mother, then yielded shyly to a kindly impulse.

"We've been making chocolate. Won't you come in and have some? You
look cold."

Jeff glimpsed beyond her the warm grate fire in the room. He, too,
yielded to an impulse. "Since you're so good as to ask me, Miss
Nellie."

She took charge of his hat and overcoat, making him sit down in a
big armchair before the fire. He watched her curiously as she
moved lightly about waiting on him. Nellie was a soft round little
person with constant intimations of a childhood not long outgrown.
Jeff judged she must be nineteen or twenty, but she had moments of
being charmingly unsure of herself. The warm color came and went
in her clear cheeks at the least provocation.

"Mother's gone to bed. She always goes early. You don't mind," she
asked naively.

Jeff smiled. She was, he thought, about as worldly wise as a
fluffy kitten. "No, I don't mind at all," he assured her.

Nor did he in the least. His weariness was of the spirit rather
than the body, and he found her grace, her shy sweetness, grateful
to the jaded senses. It counted in her favor that she was not
clever or ultra-modern. The dimpling smiles, the quick sympathy of
this innocent, sensuous young creature, drew him out of his
depression. When he left the pleasant warmth of the room half an