Some few things lay about that I had seen in the studio, to call it so, but most of the little wooden panels looked fresh, almost wet, and the air held strongly the fragrance of Armour's north veranda.

In one corner there used to be a Madonna on a carved easel; the Madonna stood on the floor, and the easel with working pegs in it held an unfinished canvas.

Dora sat in the midst with a distinct flush--she was inclined to be sallow--and made me welcome in terms touched with extravagance.

She did not rush, however, upon the matter that was dyeing her cheeks, and I showed myself as little impetuous.

She poured out the tea, and we sat there inhaling, as it were, the aroma of the thing, while keeping it consciously in the background.
I imagine there was no moment in the time I describe when we enjoyed Ingersoll Armour so much as at this one, when he lay in his nimbus half known and wholly suppressed, between us.