You, with your sense of the romantic, ought to
appreciate sitting by the fire. You know it's always done."
He slumped down by her, clasping his knees and trying to appear
the dignified American business man in his country-house.
She smiled at him intimately, and quizzed:
"Tell me about the last time you sat with a girl by the fire.
Tell poor Istra the dark secret. Was she the perfect among
pink faces?"
"I've--never--sat--before--any--fireplace--with
--any--one! Except when I was about nine--one Hallowe'en--at a
party in Parthenon--little town up York State."
"Really? Poor kiddy!"
She reached out her hand and took his. He was terrifically
conscious of the warm smoothness of her fingers playing a soft
tattoo on the back of his hand, while she said:
"But you have been in love? Drefful in love?"
"I never have."
"Dear child, you've missed so much of the tea and cakes of life,
haven't you? And you have an interest in life. Do you know,
when I think of the jaded Interesting People I've met--Why do
I leave you to be spoiled by some shop-girl in a flowered hat?
She'd drag you to moving-picture shows.
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