“Who’s that from?” he replied, without smelling.
“It’s a valentine,” she cried. “How do I know who it’s from?”
“I’ll bet you know,” he said.
“Ted!—I don’t!” she cried, beginning to shake her head, then stopping because of the ear-rings.
He stood still a moment, displeased.
“They’ve no right to send you valentines, now,” he said.
“Ted!—Why not? You’re not jealous, are you? I haven’t the least idea who it’s from. Look—there’s my initial”—she pointed with an emphatic finger at the heliotrope embroidery—
“E for Elsie,
Nice little gelsie,”
she sang.
“Get out,” he said. “You know who it’s from.”
“Truth, I don’t,” she cried.
He looked round, and saw the white stocking lying on a chair.
“Is this another?” he said.
“No, that’s a sample,” she said. “There’s only a comic.” And she fetched in the long cartoon.
He stretched it out and looked at it solemnly.
“Fools!” he said, and went out of the room.
She flew upstairs and took off the ear-rings. When she returned, he was crouched before the fire blowing the coals. The skin of his face was flushed, and slightly pitted, as if he had had small-pox. But his neck was white and smooth and goodly. She hung her arms round his neck as he crouched there, and clung to him. He balanced on his toes.
