He carried the raquets under his arm with his coat wrapped about them. At the door of her home he started to put on his coat. "You needn't," she said, perceiving his intent--"leave it off; it will be cooler. Shall we go in?" She took the coat and flung it over a chair in the hall and led the way into the little round room. "Don't light up," he said--she was feeling along the top of the teak-wood rack for matches--"Don't you think this is nicer?" In the shadow, and half-turned from him as it was, he could not see her face nor the smile that swept across it as he spoke. He flung himself on the seat between the two windows, and she sank upon a low, old-fashioned stool before him, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her two slim hands. They talked commonplaces for a space, and gradually silence fell upon them. After a while he fumbled for his tobacco and little book of cigarette papers. Divining the purpose of his search she glanced over her shoulder and asked archly in a half-whisper: "Wouldn't you rather have a made one?" She rose before he could reply, and took down from the rack across the corner a Japanese jar into the depths of which she plunged her hand. She held out to him a half-dozen of the little white tubes. Selecting one he lighted it. Puffing contentedly: "Doesn't your mother mind?" he asked. She shook her head and sat on the circular seat beside him. "She's not here," she added. "There's a social at the church; she's there...." "Oh," he muttered. While he smoked, she looked out the window into the silent street now almost dark. Afterward she watched him blow thin, writhing rings; leaning toward him, supporting herself on one hand, pressed hard against the cushion. "Why don't you smoke?" he ventured after a few moments, emboldened by the deepening shadows in the little room. "I've a mind to," she said in a half whisper. He crossed the room straightway and dove his own hand into the jar and held out a cigarette to her. "I'll get a match," he said. "Don't," she cried, "let me light it from yours."