She brushed her hand over her eyes, stared at him again, this time a little wildly. His expression--the kind eyes, the mouth with no suggestion of cruelty or guile, the smile of friendliness without familiarity--reassured her straightway. A merry smile drifted over her features--charming, pretty features, though not beautiful. “You know I detest tea,” said she. “Besides, I’m hungry.” “I’ve made enough for two large cups apiece,” he assured her. “But I had only condensed milk. It’s hard to get the other kind in the country.” She took the cup into which he poured first, tasted it. “Splendid!” she ejaculated. “I’ve been famous for my chocolate for years,” said he complacently. “If you weren’t so vain!” “Everybody’s vain. _I_ have the courage to speak out.” “_I’m_ not vain,” replied she. “If I were I should be embarrassed at your catching me like this.” And she glanced down at her wrinkled and mussy attire. “Possibly you are so vain that you don’t care,” rejoined he. “You said you were hungry, yet you haven’t tried the biscuit.” The storm howled and moaned and clattered about the house; the enormous fire poured out its gorgeous waves of color and heat, flung a mysterious and fantastic glow upon the gray-white canvas covering of the rough walls, beautified the countenance of the huge young man with the shock of black-brown hair and of the slim, fair girl with the golden-yellow crown. And they laughed and joked, keeping up their pretense of old acquaintance and drinking all the chocolate and eating all the biscuit. “Such a strange idea of yours, to live all alone here in this one room,” said she. Roger did not undeceive her. “You must admit it’s comfortable,” said he. “Except--I don’t see how you sleep.” He waved his cigarette toward the closet. “I keep everything put away in there,” he explained. “As for my bath--the tub’s only half a mile away--Lake Wauchong.” She looked thoughtfully at him. “Yes--you would need a good-sized tub,” said she. He saw that she was full of curiosity, but did not wish to break the spell of their fiction of old friendship. “What are you doing now?” she asked--the careless inquiry of an old friend after a brief separation. “Same thing--always,” said he. “That’s good,” said she, and both laughed. She looked round carefully, noted the skylight, the canvas drapery, finally a broken easel flung into a corner. “How does the painting go?” inquired she, in her eyes a demand for admiration of her cleverness. “Oh, so-so,” replied he with a glance at the big skylight, then at the broken easel, to indicate that he did not regard her display of detective talent as overwhelming. “It’s a shame you’ve never painted me.” “You know I wouldn’t touch portraits,” rebuked he severely. “I leave that to the fellows who want to make money.” “But why not make money?” urged she. “I rather like money--don’t you?”