But cold, solemn, as if frozen, heavily the piano stared back at Roddie. Then it answered, but on its own behalf, on behalf of the house and the violet patch, the garden, the velvet tree at the corner of May Street, and all that was delightful: “There is nobody here of that name, young man!” WIDOWED They came down to breakfast next morning absolutely their own selves. Rosy, fresh, and just chilled enough by the cold air blowing through the bedroom windows to be very ready for hot coffee. “Nippy.” That was Geraldine’s word as she buttoned on her orange coat with pink-washed fingers. “Don’t you find it decidedly nippy?” And her voice, so matter-of-fact, so natural, sounded as though they had been married for years. Parting his hair with two brushes (marvellous feat for a woman to watch) in the little round mirror, he had replied, lightly clapping the brushes together, “My dear, have you got enough _on_?” and he, too, sounded as though well he knew from the experience of years her habit of clothing herself underneath in wisps of chiffon and two satin bows.... Then they ran down to breakfast, laughing together and terribly startling the shy parlour-maid who, after talking it over with Cook, had decided to be invisible until she was rung for. “Good-morning, Nellie, I think we shall want more toast than _that_,” said the smiling Geraldine as she hung over the breakfast table. She deliberated—“Ask Cook to make us four more pieces, please.” Marvellous, the parlour-maid thought it was. And as she closed the door she heard the voice say, “I do so hate to be short of toast, don’t you?” He was standing in the sunny window. Geraldine went up to him. She put her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. How pleasant it was to feel that rough man’s tweed again. Ah, how pleasant! She rubbed her hand against it, touched it with her cheek, sniffed the smell. The window looked out on to flower beds, a tangle of michaelmas daisies, late dahlias, hanging heavy, and shaggy little asters. Then there came a lawn strewn with yellow leaves with a broad path beyond and a row of gold-fluttering trees. An old gardener, in woollen mitts, was sweeping the path, brushing the leaves into a neat little heap. Now, the broom tucked in his arm, he fumbled in his coat pocket, brought out some matches, and scooping a hole in the leaves he set fire to them. Such lovely blue smoke came breathing into the air through those dry leaves; there was something so calm and orderly in the way the pile burned that it was a pleasure to watch. The old gardener stumped away and came back with a handful of withered twigs. He flung them on and stood by, and little light flames began to flicker. “I do think,” said Geraldine, “I do think there is nothing nicer than a real satisfactory fire.” “Jolly, isn’t it,” he murmured back, and they went to their first breakfast.