He stood for several minutes, enjoying the engaging spectacle--enjoying it both as artist and as man. Then he went to the huge closet in the west wall where he kept, under strong lock, everything of value he had to have at the studio. He changed his boots for shoes. He took out and opened a collapsible table. Having noiselessly set upon it pots and dishes, including an alcohol stove and two cups and saucers, he proceeded to make chocolate. When it was nearly ready he opened a package of biscuits and filled a plate with them. All this with the expertness of the old, experienced bachelor housekeeper. He moved the table over to the hearth, to the corner nearer her feet, and seated himself. Luck was with him. Hardly had he got settled when her eyes--gray eyes--opened. She saw the table, the steaming pot of chocolate. She raised herself on her elbow--saw him. He met her amazed stare with a smile wholly free from impertinence.
“The chocolate is ready,” said he. “I have no tea. You see, I didn’t know you were coming.” His voice carried the humorous suggestion of old and intimate friendship, of a conversation continued after a brief interruption.
She brushed her hand over her eyes, stared at him again, this time a little wildly. His expression--the kind eyes, the mouth with no suggestion of cruelty or guile, the smile of friendliness without familiarity--reassured her straightway. A merry smile drifted over her features--charming, pretty features, though not beautiful. “You know I detest tea,” said she. “Besides, I’m hungry.”
“I’ve made enough for two large cups apiece,” he assured her. “But I had only condensed milk. It’s hard to get the other kind in the country.”
She took the cup into which he poured first, tasted it. “Splendid!” she ejaculated.
“I’ve been famous for my chocolate for years,” said he complacently.
“Everybody’s vain. _I_ have the courage to speak out.”
“_I’m_ not vain,” replied she. “If I were I should be embarrassed at your catching me like this.” And she glanced down at her wrinkled and mussy attire.
“Possibly you are so vain that you don’t care,” rejoined he. “You said you were hungry, yet you haven’t tried the biscuit.”
The storm howled and moaned and clattered about the house; the enormous fire poured out its gorgeous waves of color and heat, flung a mysterious and fantastic glow upon the gray-white canvas covering of the rough walls, beautified the countenance of the huge young man with the shock of black-brown hair and of the slim, fair girl with the golden-yellow crown. And they laughed and joked, keeping up their pretense of old acquaintance and drinking all the chocolate and eating all the biscuit.