And then began one of those beautiful and foolish conversations which all lovers have whose love has been a sure and steady growth. Thus: “When did you first begin to care,” etc. And, “That day we spent at the dunes, and you said so and so, did you mean this and that?”
Albert Edward Cobbins announced his approach by terrific stampings and scufflings, ostensibly for the purpose of ridding his boots of snow. He entered looking casual, and very nipped.
“You're here for the night,” he said. “A regular blizzard. The greatest piece of luck I've had in a month.” He busied himself with the ham and eggs and the teapot. “Hungry?”
“Not a bit,” said Fanny and Heyl, together.
“H'm,” said Albert Edward, and broke six eggs into the frying pan just the same.
After supper they aided Albert Edward in the process of washing up. When everything was tidy he lighted his most malignant pipe and told them seafaring yarns not necessarily true. Then he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and fell asleep there by the fire, effacing himself as effectually as one of three people can in a single room. They talked; low-toned murmurings that they seemed to find exquisitely meaningful or witty, by turn. Fanny, rubbing a forefinger (his) along her weather-roughened nose, would say, “At least you've seen me at my worst.”
Or he, mock serious: “I think I ought to tell you that I'm the kind of man who throws wet towels into the laundry hamper.”
But there was no mirth in Fanny's voice when she said, “Dear, do you think Lasker will give me that job? You know he said, `When you want a job, come back.' Do you think he meant it?”
“Lasker always means it.”
“But,” fearfully, and shyly, too, “you don't think I may have lost my drawing hand and my seeing eye, do you? As punishment?”