THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
he had leaned a thousand times before. By now the fire had got into the chestnut log, and everything was touched by the rosal light. Four weeks; he had known her just about four weeks. Her father's picture stood on the mantel, and he wondered how a man with such a daughter could lead such a life. There was a bit of mystery around the man somewhere.
This spot had always been Armitage's favorite. He had invariably smoked a pipe here after dinner, before going out for the evening. He fell into a dream. Supposing he was really living here again, and this child-woman who had unconsciously thrown about him an irresistible enchantment. . . . He heard the rustle of her gown, and she was standing before him, her hands behind her back, a tantalizing smile on her lips.
"La mano destra?—la sinistra?" she asked. "Which hand?"
"The one nearest the heart"—recalling an old game of his youth.
She thrust forth her left hand. It held a brown meerschaum pipe!
"Where did you find that?"
"In a corner of the bookcases. Oh, there
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