“The awful cook’s gone out,” she explained, “and I’ll have to help poor Miss E. to get something ready.”
“What!” he cried. “Do you mean to tell me you’re going to cook!”
“And eat,” she answered, cheerfully. “Please don’t be mediæval.”
“I don’t like it. A girl of your class—and your ability——”
They were spinning along the road by the marshes, passed by an incessant stream of motors going down.
“It’s a confounded shame to go home now anyway,” he said. “If we could only have had the evening!”
“Another time,” she said, before she thought, and was rather confused at her own forwardness.
“I hope so,” he answered gravely, “I can’t tell you how much I—like to be with you. I—altogether—I’ve old Horace to see you.... Do you suppose you could meet him some time? Without his wife, I mean? It’s irregular, I know, but you’re not conventional.”
She said no, that she wasn’t.
“Could you set a time? Next Wednesday?”