How fortunate, he thought again, he was in
having Fanny.
They moved into the enclosure by the fire-place, where Cytherea was
remote in shadow against the chimney, and through the hall to the
living room for coffee. His wife placed the portable stool under her
feet, and silence enveloped them. At intervals the clear treble of the
children's voices was audible from above, and once Fanny called up for
them to be quiet. The room was large, it filled that end of the lower
floor, and Lee's gaze idly rested on the smoke of his cigar, veiling
the grand piano in the far corner. There were no overhead lights, the
plugs for the lamps were set in the baseboard, and the radiance was
pleasantly diffused, warm and subdued: the dull immaculately white
paint of the bookshelves on his left, silver frames on a table,
harmonious fabrics and spots of color, consciously and sub-consciously
spread a restful pattern. In reply to his comment Fanny acknowledged
that she had seen the snow; she hated winter, she proceeded, and
thought that if it turned out as bad as last year they might get away
to Cuba and see Daniel.
Daniel was Lee's brother, four years his junior, an administrador of a
sugar estancia in the Province of Camag?ey; a man who, absorbed in his
crops and his adopted Spanish-tropical civilization, rarely returned to
the United States. This projected trip to Cuba they had discussed for
many Novembers; every year Fanny and he promised each other that, early
in February, they would actually go; and preparatory letters were
exchanged with Daniel Randon; but it always came to nothing.
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