“No, not yet.” She jumped up and brought her camp-stool over to mine. “I feel that I could better bear what you’ll say of it after I’ve had some lunch. Not a SYLLABLE of food has crossed my lips since coffee at dawn!”
I spread before her what Amedee had prepared; not sandwiches for the pocket to-day, but a wicker hamper, one end of which we let rest upon her knees, the other upon mine, and at sight of the foie gras, the delicate, devilled partridge, the truffled salad, the fine yellow cheese, and the long bottle of good red Beaune, revealed when the cover was off, I could almost have forgiven the old rascal for his scandal-mongering. As for my vis-a-vis, she pronounced it a “maddening sight.”
“Fall to, my merry man,” she added, “and eat your fill of this fair pasty, under the greenwood tree.” Obeying her instructions with right good-will, and the lady likewise evincing no hatred of the viands, we made a cheerful meal of it, topping it with peaches and bunches of grapes.
“It is unfair to let you do all the catering,” said Miss Elliott, after carefully selecting the largest and best peach.
“Jean Ferret’s friend does that,” I returned, watching her rather intently as she dexterously peeled the peach. She did it very daintily, I had to admit that—though I regretted to observe indications of the gourmet in one so young. But when it was peeled clean, she set it on a fresh green leaf, and, to my surprise, gave it to me.
“You see,” she continued, not observing my remorseful confusion, “I couldn’t destroy Elizabeth’s peace of mind and then raid her larder to boot. That poor lady! I make her trouble enough, but it’s nothing to what she’s going to have when she finds out some things that she must find out.”
“What is that?”
“About Mrs. Harman,” was the serious reply. “Elizabeth hasn’t a clue.”
“‘Clue’?” I echoed.
“To Louise’s strange affair.” Miss Elliott’s expression had grown as serious as her tone. “It is strange; the strangest thing I ever knew.”