"Going out again?" Negative head-shake. "Back aching?" Affirmative nod, accompanied by a steadily aimed puff of smoke, that she has been carefully inhaling, into his eyes. "Scamp! Have your booties off?" "Oh, don't you bother! Lizzie will do it." He has seized a foot from under the rocker, and sitting on his heels holds it on his knee, while he unlaces the boot; then he loosens the stocking under her toes, and strokes her foot gently. "Now the other!" Then he drops both boots outside the door, and fetching a little pair of slippers, past their first smartness, from the bedroom, puts one on. He examines the left foot: it is a little swollen round the ankle, and he presses his broad fingers gently round it as one sees a man do to a horse with windgalls. Then he pulls the rocker nearer to his chair, and rests the slipperless foot on his thigh. He relights his pipe, takes up his book, and rubs softly from ankle to toes as he reads. She smokes, and watches him, diverting herself by imagining him in the hats of different periods. His is a delicate skinned face, with regular features; the eyes are fine in color and shape, with the luminous clearness of a child's; his pointed beard is soft and curly. She looks at his hand,--a broad, strong hand with capable fingers; the hand of a craftsman, a contradiction to the face with its distinguished delicacy. She holds her own up, with a cigarette poised between the first and second fingers, idly pleased with its beauty of form and delicate, nervous slightness. One speculation chases the other in her quick brain: odd questions as to race arise; she dives into theories as to the why and wherefore of their distinctive natures, and holds a mental debate in which she takes both sides of the question impartially. He has finished his pipe, laid down his book, and is gazing dreamily into space, with his eyes darkened by their long lashes and a look of tender melancholy in their clear depths. "What are you thinking of?" There is a look of expectation in her quivering nervous little face. He turns to her, chafing her ankle again. "I was wondering if lob-worms would do for--" He stops: a strange look of disappointment flits across her face and is lost in an hysterical peal of laughter. "You are the best emotional check I ever knew," she gasps. He stares at her in utter bewilderment, and then a slow smile creeps to his eyes and curves the thin lips under his mustache,--a smile at her. "You seem amused, Gypsy!" She springs out of her chair, and takes book and pipe; he follows the latter anxiously with his eyes until he sees it laid safely on the table. Then she perches herself, resting her knees against one of his legs, while she hooks her feet back under the other. "Now I am all up, don't I look small?" He smiles his slow smile. "Yes, I believe you are made of gutta percha."