She had meant it to fall back on the table. But she put more nervous
force than she realized into the toss, so that it skittered across the
table and fell on the floor with a slap.

That roused him. He closed his book--on his finger, though--looked
around at her, stretched his arms and smiled. "Isn't this great?" he
said.

It wasn't a sentiment she could echo quite whole-heartedly just then,
so she asked him what he meant--wasn't what great.

"Oh, this," he told her. "Being like this."

"Sitting half a mile apart this way," she asked, "each of us reading our
own book?"

She didn't realize how completely provocative her meaning was, until, to
her incredulous bewilderment, he said enthusiastically, "Yes! exactly!"

He wasn't looking at her now, but into the fire, and he rummaged for a
match and relighted his pipe before he said anything more. "Being
permanent, you know," he explained, "and--well, our real selves again."

She tried hard to keep her voice even when she asked, "But--but what
have we been?"

And at that he laughed out. "Good heavens, what haven't we been! A
couple of transfigured lunatics. Why, Rose, I haven't been able to see
straight, or think straight, for the last six weeks. And I don't believe