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Rising from her couch she crossed the room on tiptoe and sat on the arm of Keble’s chair, leaning her head on his back as he continued to read.

“After that sharp, brief winter, the sun was already at work, softening leaf and bud, as you might feel by a faint sweetness in the air,” read Keble.

The faint sweet airs of a Western Canadian spring,—the first after a sharp long winter,—were at the black open window, stirring the curtains, cooling her cheek; and Keble was with Marius the Epicurean in Rome, seven thousand miles and many centuries away.

“... Marius climbed the long flights of steps to be introduced to the emperor Aurelius. Attired in the newest mode, his legs wound in dainty fasciae of white leather, with the heavy....”

Louise placed her hands across the page and leaned forward over Keble’s shoulder to kiss the cheek half-turned in polite interrogation. “Are fasciae puttees, darling?” she inquired. Not that she really cared. Indeed she was dismayed when he began to explain, and yawned. Penitently she sank to an attitude of attention upon a stool at his feet. Keble got up for his pipe, placing the book on a large rough table beside neat piles of books and reviews.