"Well, Princess, which is it, Pietro's or the Pheasant? I felt spaghetti-ish this morning but it's gradually worked round to planked steak."
Anne sat up and said gayly, "It's neither. It's pot-roast, and it'll be ready about six."
Roger stared, the sparkle in his eyes receding slowly. Still Anne smiled gayly at him. "It's the first one I've made and it's going to be a dandy."
But Roger took her hands in his, and Anne's gayety died. They looked at each other, and then Roger said:
"Anne, please, never do a thing like this again. Don't you trust me, dear? We believe in the same things, don't we? We're not afraid of anything, are we, honey?"
Something in Anne urged her to stand her ground. Something else made her want to cry and creep close to Roger and be held safe from her own fears and "common-sense." She was very tired. Her lips trembled. Roger drew her quickly into his arms. They clung so for a moment, as if holding fiercely against a force reaching toward them. Then Roger turned Anne's face to his.
"Princess, let's throw that damned pot-roast out."
Anne smiled faintly. "That would be silly. It's really an awfully good pot-roast. There, you can smell it. It must be going a little too fast."
But Roger did not smile. "I won't eat it. It smells—like death."
"Do you really feel like that?"