What he did not recognize or remember
was that he had told her once that his dream-girl "had her hair
parted--and wore blue--and was connected somehow with an open fire."
But he knew that she looked very sweet and lovely and very much as
if she belonged where she was.
"Oh, come in, dear!" she cried. "You're tired. Come to the fire a
minute before you go upstairs."
She spoke almost as if she were his wife, and he looked less tired
as he came to her.
"I like being welcomed home this way," he told her, putting his arm
around her, instead of releasing her, and going with her into the
living-room. "Why, Joy, I take it all back about your not being able
to keep house. One look at you would make anybody sure of it.... Are
you doing it all for Mother, dear?" he broke off unexpectedly to ask
her. "Aren't you doing it a little bit for me"
She looked up at him, flushing.
"Yes--a little bit--" she said breathlessly. Then she made herself
speak more lightly. "I did make the dressing and the pudding sauce
myself," she admitted as gaily as she could for a fast-beating
heart. "But I hoped there weren't traces. Is there flour on my
face?"
She smiled flashingly at him and tipped her face up provokingly,
slipping from his hold where they stood by the fire together. He
made one step close to her again.
"You know perfectly well what to expect for a question like that,"
he said with an unaccustomed excitement in his voice, and kissed her.
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