"Suppose it were our fire ?" she smiled.

"There would be a dog lying across that rug, and a comfortable Angora tabby dozing by the fender, and--you, cross-legged, at my feet, with that fascinating head of yours tipped back against my knees." The laughter in her voice died out, and he had risen, saying unsteadily: "Don't! I--I can't stand that sort of thing, you know." She had made a mistake, too; she also had suddenly become aware of her own limits in the same direction.
"Forgive me, dear! I meant no mockery." "I know.

...

After a while a man finds laughter difficult." "I was not laughing at--anything.

I was only pretending to be happy." "Your happiness is before you," he said sullenly.
"My future, you mean.