Toward morning he lay down on the sofa and dropped asleep. It was late when he awoke, with stiff limbs, heavy eyes, and the frowzy discomfort that comes from having slept in one’s clothes. He ran up to see Christine, but she was sleeping.
His next idea was to take a warm bath; but Miss Banks had forestalled him. She required one hour and four minutes, and she took every drop of hot water.
When he came downstairs, she was waiting impatiently.
“Oh, do make some coffee!” she cried. “I’m worn out!”
“I don’t know how to make coffee,” he told her.
“You can try,” said she.
“So can you,” he retorted.
Christine had got up, and was just then at the head of the stairs, prepared to make coffee; but when she heard this dialogue, she stopped where she was, and listened.
“Not in my line,” said Miss Banks. “I’m not domestic.”
“It’s got nothing to do with being domestic,” said Paul. “You might simply be fair. You don’t understand the rudiments of fair play. You want—”