She had always rather a flattering way of talking, and as usual when she got up to go, said she had not seen half enough of my work, and wanted me to take them down to show her again some time.
It was during the week that followed, I think, that, as I was coming home, I saw her coming towards me from the opposite direction. I had been thinking of past troubles. I had been to see an old friend of my mother's and the thought of my lost home was still with me.
She came towards me with a peculiar smile on her face—why it was peculiar I can scarcely tell, but it jarred just then. I was in no mood for silly sentiment.
"I've just been doing my shopping," she said, "come down after tea. By the way, your groceries came and I took them in—here they are."
As she handed them to me, she looked long and steadily into my eyes, and as I took the parcel from her, she drew her fingers lingeringly along my hand.
I noticed, without appearing to notice, but only thought of it as something strange.
It became a custom with me to go down to her flat every evening, and chat about the things that had happened. We had many tastes in common, and often, during the day, I would consciously save up any little thing that happened, with the thought of our evening chat together.
One night, as she sat holding a fan before her face, to shade it from the glare of the lamp before her, I thought what a beautiful picture she would make. She was sad—I could see it behind the mask she wore. Her eyes deepened into their bluest, and her voice, always even and sweetly modulated, showed no sign of what she was feeling.
She said she had felt tired while in town and had sat in St. Mary's Cathedral.
She seemed thoughtful, and presently, just in a few suggestions, she gave me the story of her life.
There was no self-pity, just the reminiscences of the girlhood of a woman who loved to skirt danger—half rebel, half witch.
As I said good-night, I kissed her for the first time.
"You dear," she said, placing her hands on my arms and giving them a squeeze, and she kissed me on the other cheek.
I was always romantic, and from that time she became a story-book woman to me.
We were good comrades, and if she did not call up to me, I called down to her, to share joys and troubles.
One day, as I sat with her in her rooms, the doorbell rang and I, being nearest, jumped up to answer it.
A man stood there and asked for her by name, saying he wished to talk to her on business.
