"Here. Cut. Slice to your heart's content, thin—like jack-straws. But spare your fingers."
She sat him in a chair and saw him begin while she prepared the salad.
"Patience is by way of being a virtue," she resumed quizzically, her pink fingers weaving among the lettuce-leaves. And then, "so they taught you that in the Army?"
"They did."
"And did you never get tired of being patient, Harry dear?"
He met the issue squarely. "You may try me as far as you like, Moira," he said quietly, "I owe you that."
She hadn't bargained for such a counter.
"Oh," she muttered, and diligently examined a doubtful lettuce leaf by the fading light of the small window, while Horton sliced scrupulously at his potato. And when the goose was safely over the flame she quickly disappeared into the studio.
He couldn't make her out. It seemed that a devil was in her, a mischievous, beautiful, tantalizing, little Irish she-devil, bent on psychological investigation. Also he had never before seen her with her hat off and he discovered that he liked her hair. It had bluish tints that precisely matched her eyes. He finished his last potato with meticulous diligence and then quickly rose and followed her into the studio where a transformation had already taken place. A table over which a white cloth had been thrown, had been drawn out near the big easel and upon it were plates, glasses, knives and forks and candles with rose-colored shades, and there was even a bowl of flowers. In the hearth fagots were crackling and warmed the cool shadows from the big north light, already violet with the falling dusk.
"Voilà, Monsieur—we are now chez nous. Is it not pleasant?"