“Oh, yes. But really, you know, they are scones,” he protested. “My mother nearly always has them.”
Nancy cast anxious eyes at the drop of molten butter that was trickling along the base of her thumb.
“And so do we,” she replied firmly; “only we eat them at breakfast, with a napkin. I don’t mean that we actually eat the napkin,” she explained hastily, in mercy for the limitations of her companion’s understanding. “But, really, these are very buttery.”
Barth sucked his forefinger with evident relish.
“Oh, rather!” he assented. “That’s what makes them so good.”
Nancy furtively rescued her handkerchief from her temporary substitute for a pocket. Then, bending forward, she arranged four of the strips of toast around the margin of her saucer.
“What’s that for?” Barth queried, at a loss to know whether the act was another Americanism, or merely a Nancyism pure and simple.
“We are going to go halves on our rations,” Nancy answered coolly. “I am just as hungry as you are, and I don’t propose to have you eating more than your share of things.”
“Would you like to have me order some more scones?” he asked courteously.
For the space of a full minute, Nancy bestowed her entire attention upon her teacup. Then she lifted the white of one eye to Barth’s questioning face.