Roger's chair. Roger picked up the paper. But he laid it aside in a moment to receive from Cicely's white hand, her wrist braceletted in emerald and diamonds to-night, a bit of dark steaming coffee in a small gold-leafed cup.
As their eyes met he smiled and said, 'This is rather nice, isn't it?'
Rather nice? It was heaven to Cicely.
The butler brought in liqueurs later. The heat of the burning logs; the cold of the ground ice in the tiny crystal glass; the sharp, permeating fragrance of the smooth, thick, emerald essence; and the presence of a lovely woman, whom the years had not robbed yet of her charm, close beside Roger—yes, really rather nice!
Roger had arrived in Wallbridge in the late afternoon. He had ridden hard for an hour and a half a horse that required constant mastering; had bathed and changed with luxurious leisure in luxurious surroundings; dined well, a decanter of fine old Sherry by his elbow; talked well (there was no woman of his acquaintance who could talk more intelligently than Cicely); and now this delicious sense of relaxation of body and of brain. And of will-power, too, it occurred to him, as he stretched out his hand a little later and placed it over the diamond and emerald bracelet near by.
