"You're expecting someone," he said, pointing dramatically to the table.
"Oh, that!" she said; "yes—that was for—for the poor man as had seen better days! There's nothing but eggs—but I couldn't turn a dog from my door on such a night—till I'd fed it!"
"Do you really mean—?"
"Why not?"
"It's glorious!"
"It's a picnic."
"But?" said he.
"Oh—well! Go if you like!" said she.
It was not only eggs: it was all sorts of things from that stores box. They ate, and they talked. He told her that he had been bored in town and had sought relief in solitude. That, she told him, was her case also. He told her how he had heard her come in, and how he had hated to take either the obvious course of following her to the kitchen, saying "How do you do?" and retiring to New Romney; or the still more obvious course of sneaking away without asking her how she did. And he told her how he had decided to keep watch over her from the bicycle shed. And how the coal-black inspiration had come to him. And she laughed.
"That was much more literary than anything else you could have thought of," said she; "it was exactly like a book. And oh—you've no idea how funny you looked."