“I am listening; but I'm thinking, too, that it's getting very late.” “See, here is my curtain!” he said, dragging out a breadth of heavy stuff. He took it to the window, and threw it over a Chinese lounge that stood beneath. “It's an old serape I picked up at Guadalajara five years ago: the beauty of having a house is that all the old rubbish you have bored yourself with for years immediately becomes respectable and useful. I expect to become so myself. You don't say that you like my curtain!” “I think it is very pagan looking, and rather--dirty.” “Well, I shan't make a point of the dirt. I dare say the thing would look just as well if it was clean. Won't you try my lounge?” he said, as she looked restlessly towards the door. “It was invented by a race that can loaf more naturally than we do: it takes an American back some time to relax enough to appreciate it.” Miss Frances half reluctantly drew her cloak about her, and yielded her Northern slenderness to the long Oriental undulations of the couch. Her head was thrown back, showing her fair throat and the sweet upward curves of her lips and brows. Arnold gazed at her with too evident delight. “Why won't you sit still? You cannot deny that you have never been so comfortable in your life before.” “It's a very good place to 'loaf and invite one's soul,'” she said, rising to a sitting position; “but that isn't my occupation at present. I must go home. It is almost dark.” “There is no hurry. I'm going with you. I want you to see how the little room lights up. I've never seen it by firelight, and I'll have my house-warming to-night!” “Oh no, indeed! I must go back. There's the five o'clock whistle, now!” “Well, we've an hour yet. You must get warm before you go.” He went out, and quickly returned with an armful of wood and shavings, which he crammed into the cold fireplace. “What a litter you have made! Do you think your mature angel from the valley will stand that sort of thing?” As she spoke, the rain descended in violence, sweeping across the piazza, and obliterating the fast-fading landscape. They could scarcely see each other in the darkness, and the trampling on the roof overhead made speech a useless effort. Almost as suddenly as it had opened upon them the tumult ceased, and in the silence that followed they listened to the heavy raindrops spattering from the eaves. Arnold crossed to the window, where Miss Frances stood shivering and silent, with her hands clasped before her. “I want you to light my fire,” he said, with a certain concentration in his voice. “Why do you not light it yourself?” She drew away from his outstretched hand. “It seems to me you are a bit of a tyrant in your own house.” He drew a match across his knee and held it towards her: by its gleam she saw his pale, unsmiling face, and again that darkening of the eyes which she remembered. “Do you refuse me such a little thing,--my first guest? I ask it as a most especial grace!”