“All right,” he said.  At the end of the corridor was an elevator in which they were shot to one of the upper floors; and the boy, inserting a key in a heavy mahogany door, revealed a sitting-room.  Between its windows was a table covered with a long, white cloth reaching to the floor, on which, amidst the silverware and glass, was set a tall vase filled with dusky roses.  Janet, drawing in a deep breath of their fragrance, glanced around the room.  The hangings, the wall-paper, the carpet, the velvet upholstery of the mahogany chairs, of the wide lounge in the corner were of a deep and restful green; the marble mantelpiece, with its English coal grate, was copied—­had she known it—­from a mansion of the Georgian period.  The hands of a delicate Georgian clock pointed to one.  And in the large mirror behind the clock she beheld an image she supposed, dreamily, to be herself.  The bell boy was taking off her coat, which he hung, with Ditmar’s, on a rack in a corner.

“Shall I light the fire, sir?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Ditmar.  “And tell them to hurry up with lunch.”

The boy withdrew, closing the door silently behind him.

“We’re going to have lunch here!” Janet exclaimed.

“Why not?  I thought it would be nicer than a public dining-room, and when I got up this morning and saw what the weather was I telephoned.”  He placed two chairs before the fire, which had begun to blaze.  “Isn’t it cosy?” he said, taking her hands and pulling her toward him.  His own hands trembled, the tips of his fingers were cold.

“You are cold!” she said.

“Not now—­not now,” he replied.  The queer vibrations were in his voice that she had heard before.  “Sweetheart!  This is the best yet, isn’t it?  And after that trip in the storm!”

“It’s beautiful!” she murmured, gently drawing away from him and looking around her once more.  “I never was in a room like this.”

“Well, you’ll be in plenty more of them,” he exulted.  “Sit down beside the fire, and get warm yourself.”

She obeyed, and he took the chair at her side, his eyes on her face.  As usual, she was beyond him; and despite her exclamations of surprise, of appreciation and pleasure she maintained the outward poise, the inscrutability that summed up for him her uniqueness in the world of woman.  She sat as easily upright in the delicate Chippendale chair as though she had been born to it.  He made wild surmises as to what she might be thinking.  Was she, as she seemed, taking all this as a matter of course?  She imposed on him an impelling necessity to speak, to say anything—­it did not matter what—­and he began to dwell on the excellences of the hotel.  She did not appear to hear him, her eyes lingering on the room, until presently she asked:—­“What’s the name of this hotel?”

He told her.

“I thought they only allowed married people to come, like this, in a private room.”