“You’re rather lean for a man who dines every day,” laughed Bright. “That’s all. I believe you starve in secret. You’re afraid of getting fat, Jack—that’s the truth. Confess it! You think it wouldn’t be romantic.”
“I wish you would get a little fatter, Jack,” said Katharine. “You’d be much nicer, I’m sure.”
The remark might have been natural enough between two cousins, both young. But there was a subtle suggestion of proprietorship, or at least of belonging to one another, in the tone of her voice, which jarred on Wingfield’s ear. He was by no means dull nor slow of perception, in spite of what he had said of himself. As an athlete, however, he took up the question.
“You’d be stronger if you were a little heavier, Ralston,” he said. “Do you go in for oatmeal when you train?”
“Oh—I haven’t trained since I was at college. I never bothered much. But I don’t like stodgy things like porridge. I was a running man, you know. I don’t believe it makes a particle of difference what one eats.”
“Oh, I do!” Katharine exclaimed, anxious to make the conversation move. “I like some things and I don’t like others.”
“What, for instance?” asked Bright. “What do you like best to eat—and then afterwards, what other things do you like best in the world? That’s interesting. If you’ll tell us, we’ll get them for you right off.”
“I should think you could, between you,” said Mrs. Bright, glancing round at the three goodly men, and wondering whether Wingfield was as much in love with Katharine as the other two.
“What I like?—let me see,” said Katharine. “I like simple things to eat. I hate peppermints, for instance. My mother lives on them. I like plain things, generally—fish and game. Truffles—that’s another thing I detest. Aunt Maggie never can understand why. She says there’s something mysterious in a truffle, that appeals to her.”
“They’re so good!” exclaimed Mrs. Bright. “Big black ones in a napkin with fresh butter. But it’s quite true. There’s a sort of mystery in a truffle. It’s like love, you know.”