She looked resentfully at the pan, slimy with the congealed yellowness of egg, and shuddered.
“How do you expect me to do that?” she asked dangerously.
“It’s easy enough. I’ll show you.”
He led the way down the bank to the edge of the stream. He scooped a handful of earth into the pan, plucked up a tuft of grass by the roots, and held the two things out to her.
“Scrub the earth around with the grass, and repeat until clean. Rinse and dry.”
All her hatred and disgust was seething up again, but she tried to keep her balance. To lose her temper was the worst way to go about undermining his insolent assurance.
“There are limits,” she said, as evenly as she could, “and I think you’ve reached them.”
“Hadn’t it occurred to you that dishes have to be washed?”
“It hadn’t occurred to me that a man could ask me to put my hands into a foul mess like that. But perhaps I still thought you might have some of the more elementary instincts of a gentleman. It was rather an absurd mistake to make, wasn’t it?”
“Very,” said the Saint carefully. “Especially after last night. As I explained to you — camp chores are split two ways. Can you make a fire?”