Hugh could see
the blurred outlines of a few pieces of cheap furniture; a sofa, three
or four chairs, a table, and a clumsy writing desk. But the window was
still a square of pale bluish light, cut out of the violet dusk, and as
the young man's eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness, the room did
not seem dark.
He was not left alone for long. In two or three minutes Rosemary
appeared once more, without her hat and coat, to say that "Angel" had
not yet come back. "But she'll soon be here now," went on the child.
"Do you mind waiting in the twilight, fairy father? The electric light
doesn't come on till after five, and I've just heard the clock
downstairs strike five."
"I shall like it," answered Hugh, glad that his face should be hidden by
the dusk, in these moments of waiting.
"Angel tells me stories in the twilight," said Rosemary, as he sat down
on the sofa by the cold fireplace, and she let him lift her light little
body to his knee. "Would you tell me one, about when you were lost?"
"I'll try," Hugh said. "Let me think, what story shall I tell?"
"I won't speak while you're remembering," Rosemary promised, leaning her
head confidingly against his shoulder.
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