"For—I don't know," she replied. "Just waiting."
"But there's nothing to wait for."
She looked at him interrogatively. "No—I suppose not," she said.
He went back into his room and glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock!" he cried. "Why didn't you wake me? You must be nearly starved."
"Yes, I am hungry," said she.
Her patient, passive resignation irritated him. "I'm ravenous," he said. "I'll dress—and you dress, too. We'll go downstairs to supper."
When he reappeared in the sitting room, in a dinner jacket, she was again seated near the window, hands listless in her lap and eyes gazing dreamily into vacancy. But she was now dressed in the black chiffon and the big black hat. He laughed. "You are prompt and obedient," said he. "Nothing like hunger to subdue."
A faint flush tinged her lovely skin; the look of the child that has been struck appeared in her eyes.
He cast about in his mind for the explanation. Did she think he meant it was need that had brought her meekly back to him? That was true enough, but he had not intended to hint it. In high good humor because he was so delightfully hungry and was about to get food, he cried: "Do cheer up! There's nothing to be sad about—nothing."
She lifted her large eyes and gazed at him timidly. "What are you going to do with me?"