Chapter Two
"Have an eclair!" suggested young Mr. Harte encouragingly. "Probably made with egg substitute, certainly filled with synthetic cream, guaranteed rather to atrophy than to increase the figure."
His companion, who had been sitting in brooding silence for several minutes, looked up, smiled, and shook her head. "No, thanks. I'm not afraid of getting fat."
"Well, that's something," said Timothy. "What a repellent joint this is!"
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"That which repels. A table which is not only too small, but which stands on unequal legs; rout chairs, than which there is nothing less conducive to habits of easy social intercourse; a general atmosphere of mobcappery; and -"
"Not that. Why is it something that I'm not afraid of getting fat?"
"Oh, merely that it's the only thing I've discovered, to date, which you're not afraid of!"
For a moment her rather stormy grey eyes lifted to his in a wide, startled look; then they were lowered, and she said in a hard voice: "Don't be absurd!"
"Of course, I don't mean that there is nothing else you're not afraid of," said Timothy conversationally. "Only that I haven't yet discovered what these things are. Have some more tea!"