It was late in the afternoon when they returned home from their skiing in the snowy country around the Weymans’ estate on the Hudson. Glenn went up to his room to lounge and read until dinner time, but Anne staggered with an exaggerated air of fatigue into the library, and Enderly followed her. A fire, recently lighted, blazed its invitation from the far end of the long room, and although it was not yet quite dark outside, the heavy velvet curtains had already been drawn across the windows and several table lamps were glowing through rich, soft-colored shades. Enderly, without asking Anne’s leave, went the round of the lamps, turning off their lights. But even without the lamps the freshly lighted fire kept the room alive and awake. Anne threw herself into the exact center of the deep divan which was drawn up before the fireplace, and Enderly, without hesitation or a word, settled himself close at her side. She leaned her head against the back of the divan, shut her eyes, and murmured “Hello. Where’d you come from?” as though already half asleep. Her voice was oddly, boyishly deep, but with a slight catch in it which turned it thrillingly feminine. Enderly liked Anne’s voice: it was the thing that had attracted him to her in the beginning, when he had met her at a house party in New Haven. “Why, I’ve been tobogganing, darling.” “So’ve I. Funny. There was a creature along with us,—name of Prescott Enderly. Thinks he’s a novelist and quite important, you know. Perhaps he can write, but he’s not so good in the snow.” “Really? Well, darling, you are magnificent in the snow, so it doesn’t matter about me. You were a gorgeous red bird, always flying somewhere ahead in the face of a dead, white world. Beautiful!” Anne opened her eyes and glanced down at her flannel skirt, ruby in the firelight. “But yesterday, Pressy, you insisted I was a flame. I’d really rather be a flame than a bird. Aren’t I more a flame? Say, ‘yes’!” He laid his hand over her two hands which were clasped on her crossed knees. But he laid it casually, looking into the fire. Her eyelids flickered at the contact, but her hands did not stir or tremble. “You’re a flame in the house—now. Close like this.... But a bird in the open. How’s that? Satisfied?” His cheek just brushed hers. “No, not satisfied,” she insisted huskily,—and then pretended to yawn, because huskiness was a symptom of feeling with her, and Prescott knew it. “They all say ‘flame.’ It isn’t because it’s original with you that I like it. Think it was?” His hand pressed harder on her clasped hands. “Why do you want to remind me there are others?” he asked. “One takes that for granted with a—flame, you know. It’s been some time, darling, though, since there were others for me. Perhaps I’d better look around. If there were a little competition you might be nicer. How about Ariel Clare?”