"Marster, is it!" She sent me a look with which there was a most fetching little curve at the corners of her lips that she seemed unable to control. "I'll 'ave you understand that queens of the kitchen know no marster!"
"But you won't be in the kitchen all the time."
"That I will," she replied. "In the woods, all the world's a kitchen!"
"I rather wish it was," I sighed, looking toward the savory skillet and coffee pot; whereupon she gave the brightest of laughs, telling me to set the table as things were about ready.
But Smilax and I had never bothered about a table. We did not even possess a cloth, or napkin, or anything like that. So I cut some palm leaves, arranging them on the ground; then ransacked the duffle for a small kit of aluminum plates and cups, with also knives and forks. Neither had Smilax and I deigned to use this kit, principally because our meals had been taken on the move. At best palm leaves do not make a good table, as their ridges cause the dishes to wobble; so in the end we spread our steaming feast upon the grass.
My word, but that was a breakfast! I don't remember what we had, but it did taste good. When it was over, right down to the last crumb—for she had complained of starvation, too—I looked across at her, saying:
"If I can move, at all, and you're willing to go slowly, I'd like to show you over your new possessions!"
"Right away? Mercy no," she stood up, brushing her skirt. "I'm going to get a cigarette, and you're going to wash the dishes!"
"But Smilax washes the dishes," I protested.
"And he may be thirty miles from here," she announced.