"You slowed up because you had to! And I don't believe you were angry a while ago, either!"
"Don't you?" she asked, slowly.
"Not so very," I compromised, seeing the danger signal. "I think you were just making a jolly chump of me, that's all. I don't so much mind making one of myself, but it's rotten having other people do it for me!"
"I suppose," she said indifferently, raising her arms to tuck in a lock of hair, "that if it's worthwhile making the distinction, you might be allowed a choice."
For the pure deviltry of this remark I looked around for something to throw at her, and then saw our fire—a tragic picture of dead ashes which the wind was blowing over a now cold skillet.
"See," I cried, "what our family row has led to! Fire out, breakfast ruined, and here I am due at the office in half an hour!"
"Oh, Jack," she looked at me gravely, putting an end to our banter—and for the first time calling me Jack, though I believe she did it unconsciously—"haven't we any more buttonwood? This is serious, isn't it!"
"Not so very, perhaps. We can try another kind."
"Will it be safe?" she asked, uncertainly.
"With a small fire of very dry hardwood, and this rising wind, what little smoke there is won't hold together long enough to be seen."