“You must go, Nella-Rose.”
“Not”—here she sat down firmly and undid her ridiculous plaid shawl—“not till you give me a bite. Just a mighty little bite—I’m starving!”
At this Truedale roared with laughter and went hurriedly to his closet. The girl must eat and—go. Mechanically he set about placing food upon the table. Then he sat opposite Nella-Rose while she ate with frank enjoyment the remains of his own noon-day meal. He could not but note, as he often did, the daintiness with which she accomplished the task. Other women, as Truedale remembered, were not prepossessing when attacking food; but this girl made a gracious little ceremony of the affair. She placed the small dishes in orderly array before her; she poised herself lightly on the edge of the chair and nibbled—there was no other word for it—as a perky little chipmunk might, the morsels she raised gracefully to her mouth. She was genuinely hungry and for a few minutes devoted her attention to the matter in hand.
Then, suddenly, Nella-Rose did something that shattered the last scrap of self-control that was associated with the trusty Kendall and his good example. She raised a bit of food on her fork and held it out to Truedale, her lovely eyes looking wistfully into his.
“Please! I feel so ornery eating alone. I want to—share! Please play party with me!”
Truedale tried to say “I had my dinner an hour ago”; instead, he leaned across his folded arms and murmured, as if quite outside his own volition:
“I—I love you!”
Nella-Rose dropped the fork and leaned back. Her lids fell over the wide eyes—the smile faded from her lips.
“Do you belong to any one—else, Nella-Rose?”
“No—oh! no.” This like a frightened cry.