“Only first,” she said, “aren’t you going to ask me to stay to dinner? It’s very late, you know—”
“I don’t dine here,” he answered, “and I doubt if you would eat very much at the restaurant where I take my meals.”
“Well, would you mind my going into the kitchen and making myself a cup of tea?”
He gave his consent, but evinced no intention of accompanying her. To see her like this, in his own home, where he had so often imagined her being and where she would never be again, was torture to him.
After an interval that seemed to him an eternity, she came back flushed and triumphant, carrying a tray on which were tea, toast and scrambled eggs.
“There,” she said, “don’t you think I’ve improved? Don’t you think I’m rather a good housewife?”
The element of pathos in her self-satisfaction was too much for him. “I’m afraid I’m not in the mood either for comedy or for supper,” he said.
Her face fell. “I thought you’d be so hungry,” she observed gently. “But no matter. Sit down and we’ll talk.”
“I know of nothing to talk about,” he returned, but he dropped reluctantly into a hard, stiff chair opposite her.
“I’ll tell you what there is to talk about,” said Christine. “Something that has never been mentioned in all the discussions that have been taking place. And that is my feelings.”