“Thank you!” he said. “It’s awfully good of you. We’ll never forget it!”
She smiled constrainedly, but said nothing. Her eyes wandered about the mean, shabby room, with the dusty yellowish carpet on the floor, the narrow painted bureau covered with a torn towel, the iron bed with its one flat pillow, his smart little trunk, so out of place there. So intent was she that he fancied she was about to make some comment on the poverty of which he was ashamed. But she only said:
“I do wish I had a cup of tea! I’ve such a headache!”
“We can go out——”
“Oh, couldn’t we have it here? Isn’t that a spirit lamp?”
“Yes,” he answered, reluctantly, “but I’ve no milk or sugar——”
“I’m sure you can get them very near here.”
He could think of no polite reason for refusing, so he went out to buy what she told him, slipping in and out of the front door, in mortal terror lest the landlady should catch him and tell him ladies weren’t allowed in the gentlemen’s rooms. Why did Minnie do such an extraordinary, unnecessary thing?
When he got back, the spirit lamp was lighted and the little kettle beginning to hiss, while Minnie sat watching it. She looked very much at home. She had taken off her jacket and hat, and he fancied that her hair was better dressed than usual, that she was wearing a rather gayer blouse, in short, that she was “dressed up.”
“Now then!” she said, cheerfully, “aren’t we cozy?”