The whole room was heavy with the scent of roses, although the windows were wide, and the night-breeze stirred the curtains continually.

It was a woman's room, he told himself.

Then he looked at the man's figure, lithe, tense, upright; the dark grey suit not unlike his own, the beautiful curve of the jaw, the clear pale complexion, the thin nose, the protruding curve of idealism over the eyes, and the dark hair.

It was a poet's face, he told himself, and the whole personality was a living and vivid one.

Then he turned a little and rose as the door opened, and Mabel came in, closing it behind her.
She came straight across to her husband, and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Sit down, my dear," she said.