“Of course,” he answered. “Did you think I meant to starve you?”
He picked up the long envelope which she had dropped upon the carpet, and threw it on to the sofa. Then he drew up two chairs to the table, and opened a small bottle of champagne.
“I hope you won't mind a picnic,” he said. “Really, Brooks hasn't done so badly—pâté de foie gras, hot toast and Devonshire butter. Let me spread some for you. A cold chicken afterwards, and some strawberries. Please be hungry, Margaret.”
She laughed at him. It occurred to him suddenly, with a little pang, that he had never heard her laugh before. It was like music.
“I'm too happy,” she murmured.
“Believe me,” he assured her, as he buttered a piece of toast, “happiness and hunger might well be twins. They go so well together. Misery can take away one's appetite. Happiness, when one gets over the gulpiness of it, is the best tonic in the world. And I never saw any one, dear, with whom happiness agreed so well,” he added, pausing in his task to bend over and kiss her. “Do you know you are the most beautiful thing on earth? It is a lucky thing we are going to live in England, and that these are sober, matter-of-fact days, or I should find myself committed to fighting duels all the time.”
She had a momentary relapse. A look of terror suddenly altered her face. She caught at his wrist.
“Don't!” she cried. “Don't talk about such things!”
He was a little bewildered. The moment passed. She laughed almost apologetically.
“Forgive me,” she begged, “but I hate the thought of fighting of any sort. Some day I'll explain.”