night to me a second time at the street-door, the sudden thought came that he knew my final thought, and to where did that final thought end? As I came up the dark staircase with my candle-light sending uncouth shadows about me above and below, I wondered, in a half-vague way about the meaning of the thing?
When I entered the dining-room, I found Rosy leaning against the mantelpiece, warming one foot.
'Are you cold?' I said, putting down the candle on the table and throwing myself into an easy-chair, with my knuckles up to my mouth and my eyes to her.
'Yes,' she said; 'I am cold—a little.'
'Why, it's quite warm.'
She made a little motion with her back expressive of a shiver. I took up a book. She turned her head:
'Don't read anymore to-night,' she said, 'You're always rea-ding.'
'Am I?' I asked, looking at the tops of the leaves; 'perhaps I want to get wise. Now if I were you, Rosy, I should learn French. I'd be only too glad to get you a master. And why not music too?'
'I don't seem to care about it,' she said.
'You are lazy?'
A pause.
She came to me.
'Don't sit on the arm of the chair,' I said, 'or you'll break it.'
She stopped. I continued looking at the tops of the leaves. 'Then she drew a stool from underneath the table to my feet, and sat down upon it and looked at me. In a little I met her gaze.
'Well?' I said.
'I will learn the French and the music if you like!' she said.
I laughed.
'My dear, the liking must be yours. I don't want you to do what you don't like.'
'You're always rea-ding,' she said, 'I don't believe you ever think about me. You don't care what I do!—really.'
'I don't,' I said, 'You are right.' She seemed struck speechless.
I opened the book and began reading.
