Maggie was reading, and she did not look round.

Paul stopped--warming himself by the fire nearest to the door.

He was the sort of man to come into a room without any remark.
Maggie looked up for a moment, glancing at the wood fire.

She seemed to know for certain that it was Paul.
"Have you been out ?" she asked.
"Yes--calling." He came toward her, standing beside her with his hands clasped behind his back, looking into the fire.
"Socially," he said, with a quiet humor, "I am not a success." Her book dropped upon her knees, her two hands crossed upon its pages.
She stared at the glowing logs as if his thoughts were written there.
"I do not want to give way," he went on, "to a habit of morbid introspection, but socially I am a horrid failure." There was a little smile on the girl's face, not caused by his grave humor.

It would appear that she was smiling at something beyond that--something only visible to her own mental vision.
"Perhaps you do not try," she suggested practically.
"Oh, yes, I do.