This life, however, contained two elements which gave some color and
zest to her existence. All through the day she would look forward to
Graydon's return from business, and when she heard his latch-key the
faintest possible color would steal into her cheeks. Up-stairs, two
steps at a time, he would come, kiss her, waltz her about the room
with a strength which scarcely permitted her feet to touch the floor,
then toss her back on the lounge, where she would lie, laughing,
breathless, and happy. With a man's ignorant tolerance he accepted her
character as an invalid, and felt that the least he could do was
to brighten a life which seemed so dismal to him. When he came down
dressed for dinner or some evening engagement, she looked at him with
a frank, admiring pride that amused him immensely. When he returned
earlier than usual he often found her still upon the lounge with her
inevitable book, usually a novel, and then he would take her upon
his lap and call her his "dear little spook, the household ghost that
would soon cease to cast a shadow;" and she, with a languid curiosity,
would easily beguile from him a portrayal of the scenes through which
he had just passed. She cared little for them, but from his stores
of vitality and strength he imparted life to her, and without
understanding why, she simply knew she was happy.
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