“Left over?” echoed Barlasch, going close to her and looking up into her face, for she was two inches taller than he. “Left over? Then you did not eat your supper last night?”
“Neither did you eat yours, for it is there under the floor.”
Barlasch turned away with a gesture of despair. He sat down in the high armchair that stood on the hearth, and tapped on the floor with one foot in pessimistic thought.
“Ah! the women, the women,” he muttered, looking into the smouldering fire. “Lies—all lies. You said that your supper was very nice,” he shouted at her over his shoulder.
“So it was,” answered she gaily, “so it is still.”
Barlasch did not rise to her lighter humour. He sat in reflection for some minutes. Then his thoughts took their usual form of a muttered aside.
“It is a case of compromise. Always like that. The good God had to compromise with the first woman he created almost at once. And men have done it ever since—and have never had the best of it. See here,” he said aloud, turning to Desiree, “I will make a bargain with you. I will eat my last night's supper here at this table, now, if you will eat yours.”
“Agreed.”
“Are you hungry?” asked Barlasch, when the scanty meal was set out before him.
“Yes.”