'Yes,' she said, 'that's me.'
The mild autumn perished in rain-storms and the weather grew colder; bracing and invigorating to me, enervating to her—the veritable traditional winter. At last we had keen frost. She spent most of her time by the fire, generally sitting with her knees gathered up on the hearthrug, reading a book or thinking—heaven knows what about!
My walks were nearly always alone now. Consequently they ceased to be semi-rides and became pure peripatetics. With them came also thought again, to oust its poor substitute of dreaming. The frost continued. We had a little snow. At first I tried to get her to take more exercise; but being out of doors in such weather was only misery to her, and so I let her alone.
'We will go to Italy next winter,' said I one evening, having been for a tramp in the falling snow, changed my clothes, and stopped by and above her (she on the hearthrug, that is). 'To Italy! to Italy! Italy was the dream of my boyhood. I am a real northman. I have the migratory instinct in me. Oh Italy, Italy'
I stopped, and sat down in the easy-chair, and thought about Italy and about my past dream of Italy, and about some one with me in Italy.
At last:
'You must be so cold,' she said.
'Not I!' I answered, with a sudden look to her, 'I'm as warm as a toast. By Jove!' I added, 'I must do something to-night.' (The something being a something in my head that seemed to wish for written expression.) My remark was a sort of outwork designed to stop any advancing objections on Rosy's part.
None came. She sat silent on the hearthrug, with her chin on her up-gathered knees, and her eyes in the fire. I wished her away in bed—the best place for her. I disliked writing with anyone in the room. As I was settling my desk and paper on the table, I suggested it to her.
'What?' she said, looking round at me.
'You seem tired,' I said, bringing a chair to my place. 'Hadn't you better go to bed?'
