One cold rainy evening he met Nellie Anderson in the hall. She had
been saying good-bye to some friends who had been in to call on
her.
"You're wet, Mr. Farnum," the young woman said.
"A little."
She stood hesitating in the doorway leading to the apartment of
herself and her mother, then yielded shyly to a kindly impulse.
"We've been making chocolate. Won't you come in and have some? You
look cold."
Jeff glimpsed beyond her the warm grate fire in the room. He, too,
yielded to an impulse. "Since you're so good as to ask me, Miss
Nellie."
She took charge of his hat and overcoat, making him sit down in a
big armchair before the fire. He watched her curiously as she
moved lightly about waiting on him. Nellie was a soft round little
person with constant intimations of a childhood not long outgrown.
Jeff judged she must be nineteen or twenty, but she had moments of
being charmingly unsure of herself. The warm color came and went
in her clear cheeks at the least provocation.
"Mother's gone to bed. She always goes early. You don't mind," she
asked naively.
Jeff smiled. She was, he thought, about as worldly wise as a
fluffy kitten. "No, I don't mind at all," he assured her.
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