"Prod it with a fork, then. You're dreadfully civilised. Here's another piece. Do you think you can cook it while I set the table?"
"I'll try," he said.
"Don't let it stick."
"How," he said politely, "is one to prevent it?"
"Oh, you silly! Perhaps I'd better do it, if I can trust you not to break the china. Now, think of what you're doing."
"I'll do my best, ma'am." He delighted in her tyranny and in her company. "Theresa," he said, with a cup hanging on each forefinger, "I'd like to end my days up here with you. We could rent a little cottage—there's one close to the church. It—it might be dull for you, but—there's your writing. You'd have time for that, at last."
"You forget," she said in hurried interruption, for his ambitions for her always smote her, "you forget that I shall be caring for my widower." But that unwise allusion brought the red to her cheeks, and she turned quickly to stir the porridge.
It was a morning of clear blue and green, with a high wind to blow the larches and lash the waters of the streams that were swollen with the melted snow. The shadows of passing clouds made transient blotches on the shining emerald of the hills. The tolling of the one church bell came now loud, now low, at the fancy of the wind.
"It's Easter Sunday," Edward Webb said again. "Theresa, there's a beautiful little church, ten miles away, across the hills. I went there once to service in the afternoon, and I think I'll go again. Will you come with me?"