And at that instant the sound of a pot crashing in the kitchen made me jump.
So she was there! I bestowed my parcels in the bedroom, and thence hurried to ascertain the cause.
She was standing by the stove, a look between anger and dismay on her face. The fragments of a pipkin lay on the floor.
“I heard you come in,” she said, “and it flustered me. I am furious that it should have, but it did. I was trying to bake some eggs, and there they lie. Do you want me to starve, that you leave me like this?”
She was wrathful in her hunger; all the apathy was gone.
“I have brought some lunch with me,” I said. “You would have had it sooner if your list had been shorter. Go now to the table, and I will serve it with what despatch I may.”
There were oysters—which I knew how to open—little croquettes of chicken, honey-comb in a section, chocolate, and a good bottle of Sauterne. I had them all in a basket, at which Fifine looked wistfully. She went without a word, however; but at the door she hesitated, looking back. “I am sorry I broke the pipkin,” she said, and vanished.
When, in a little after, I brought in the meal and, placing it before her, stood aside like a waiter, she glanced at me doubtfully.
“Do you never eat, yourself, Monsieur?”
“Occasionally,” I answered, “when my betters are satisfied.”