Sylvia settled herself comfortably, and smoothed out the folds of her dull-black silk dress. "Wouldn't you like to smoke?" she asked; "it's an awfully comfortable feeling--to watch a man smoking, in front of an open fire!" "I'd love to, if you're sure you don't mind. I don't want to make the air in here heavy--for I suppose you've got to sleep here on this sofa, having allowed yourself to be turned out of your good bed." She laughed. "I'm so small that I can curl up and sleep on almost anything, like a kitten," she said. "And it's fine to think of being able to give my room to James and Sadie--they're so nice, and so happy together. I can open the windows wide for a few minutes after you've gone, and there won't be a trace of tobacco smoke left. If there were, I shouldn't mind it. Now, what is it, Austin?" "I want to talk. I haven't seen you a single minute alone. And though the others are all interested, it isn't like telling things to a person who's done all the wonderful things and seen all the wonderful places that I just have. I've simply got to let loose on some one." "Of course, you have. I thought that was it. Talk away, but not too loud. We mustn't disturb the others, who are all trying to go to sleep by this time. Tell me--which of the Italian cities did you like best--Rome--or Florence--or Naples?" "Will you think me awfully queer if I say none of them, but after Venice, the little ones, like Assisi, Perugia, and Sienna. I'm so glad we took the time for them. Oh, _Sylvia_--" And he was off. The little clock on the mantel struck several times, unnoticed by either of them, and it was after one, when, glancing inadvertently at it, Austin sprang to his feet, apologizing for having kept her awake so long, and hastily bade her good-night. "May I come again some evening and talk more?" he asked, with his hand on the door-handle, "or have I bored and tired you to death? You're a wonderful listener." "Come as often as you like--I've been learning things, too, that I want to tell you about." "For instance?" "Oh, how to cook and sweep and sew--and how to be well and happy and at peace," she added in a lower voice. Then, speaking lightly again, "We'll try to keep up that French you've worked so hard at, together--I'm dreadfully out of practice, myself--and read some of Browning's Italian poems, if you would care to. Goodnight, and again, Merry Christmas." He left her, almost in a daze of excitement and happiness; and mounted the stairs, turning over everything that had been said and done during the two hours since he entered her room. As he reached the top, a sudden suspicion shot through him. He stopped short, almost breathlessly, then stood for several moments as if uncertain what to do, the suspicion gaining ground with every second; then suddenly, unable to bear the suspense it had created, ran down the stairs again. Sylvia's door was closed; he knocked.