“I can’t tell you how awfully sorry I am, but it appears that I have got your box of provisions.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Bettington, mechanically polite.
“Mine has evidently been put on to some other waggon by mistake, and I was actually just about to eat your things for my supper.” She motioned to where on another packing-case set out with white enamel plates some slices of bully beef had been arranged with a tomato salad.
She looked young and slight in the firelight, and her hair was bronzier than ever. Bettington put on his most velvety manners.
“And I hope you still will. I’m delighted that the things have been of any use, though I’m afraid the box contains only the most ordinary kind of junk.”
“Not at all—it is full of good things. I had my lunch and breakfast out of it to-day—it never occurred to me for a moment until I heard your boy questioning mine about your box—then I casually glanced at the lid—and to my horror, the name Bettington!”
“I am sorry my name should so unpleasantly inspire you,” he deplored.
“Oh, of course—I didn’t mean—I—”
“The only possible amends I can make is to go at once and look for your box while you finish your supper.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t—I am so ashamed. First, it appears, I deprive you of your tent—and now of your food.”