"You baked it yourself, did you not?"
"Yes, Mr. Seraphin!"
He attacked the loaf resolutely. From the dimensions of the slice which he cut off, it was plain that appetite and his confidence in her skill were satisfactory. She raised the jar of bonnyclabber, which lurched out in jerks upon his plate, whilst he kept gayly stirring it with the spoon. Then she dipped a spoonful of rich cream out of the cup and poured it into the refreshing contents of the plate.
"Let me know when you want me to stop, Mr. Seraphin." Mechtild poured spoonful after spoonful; he sat immovable, seemingly observing the spoon, but in reality watching her soft plump fingers, then her well-shaped hand, next her exquisitely arm, and, when finally he raised his eyes to her face, they were met by a mischievous smile. The cup was empty, and all the cream was in his plate.
"May I go and fetch some more?" she asked.
"No, Mechtild, no! Why, this is a regular yellow sea!"
"You wouldn't cry 'enough!'"
"I forgot about it," he replied, somewhat confused. "To atone for my forgetfulness, I will eat it all."
"I hope you will relish it, Mr. Seraphin!"
"Thank you! Where is your plate?"