"And you're to help me cook it—and vegetables and coffee. You know"—she finished, "nothing ever tastes quite so good as when you cook it yourself."
"And you do all the cooking——?" he asked thoughtfully.
"Sometimes—but more often we go to a café. Sometimes Madame Toupin helps, the concierge—but father thinks my cooking is the best."
"I don't doubt it. I shall, too." And then, "where is your father to-day?"
She looked at him, eyes wide as though suddenly reminded.
"I forgot," she gasped. "He asked me to tell you that he was obliged to be leaving for Ireland—about the Irish rents. Isn't it tiresome?"
"Oh," said Horton quietly. "I see."
He turned his thoughtful gaze out of the carriage window into the Avenue de Neuilly. The situation had its charm, but he had counted on the presence of Barry Quinlevin.
"How long will he be gone?" he asked.
"I don't know," she replied, "a week or more perhaps. But I'll try to make you comfortable. I've wanted so to have everything nice."