Ida's laughing eyes suddenly became deep and dreamy as she said: "That time seems ages ago. I cannot realize that we are the same people that met so often in Mr. Burleigh's dining-room, and in circumstances that to me were often so very dismal."
"Please remember that I am not the same person. I will esteem it a great favor if you will leave the man you saw at that time in the limbo of the past—the farther off the better."
"You were rather distant then," Ida remarked with a piquant smile.
"But am I now? Answer me that," he said so eagerly that she was again mentally enraged at her tell-tale color, and she said hastily: "But where am I to find the ambrosia and nectar that you will expect this evening?"
"Any market can furnish the crude materials. It is the touch of the hostess that transmutes them."
"Alas," said Ida, "I never learned how to cook. If I should prepare your dinner, you would have an awful mood to-morrow, and probably send for the doctor."
"I would need a nurse more than a doctor."
"I know of an ancient woman—a perfect Mrs. Harris," said Ida, gleefully.
"Wouldn't you come and see me if I were very ill?"
"I might call at the door and ask how you were," she replied, hesitatingly.