“It does make me feel hungry.”
“Good! Sit, then, and I’ll serve you: for, mind you, you are only a guest at this wayside meal. I see just one slice of bread and butter I think I can spare.”
“Oh, stingy!” she cried. A happy little laugh bubbled from her as she slipped into a chair at his side. He helped her; then, proving his earlier assertions, fell to with a will.
“Not stingy,” he mumbled, through bread and butter. “But you have already eaten three big, fat meals to-day.”
“I haven’t!” she protested. This was a most unfair charge. He went on:
“Eating now is a mere—a Mearely—woman’s whim with you. You want this supper just because it is mine!” He attacked the salad, hungrily.
“Well! I gave it to you, didn’t I?” she demanded indignantly.
“And now, womanlike, you want to take it back. Never!—while I have teeth!”—biting into the sandwich he had been waving to emphasize his remarks. “Don’t plume yourself on your charity, either, dear young Baroness of Castle de Junk——”
“Oh!” she scolded.
“Because you know you had to give me something to keep me from robbing the museum.”