She offered the muffin, already steeped in delicious butter, with the slightly imperious charm of a Madame Récamier, not that Henry Harper knew any more about Madame Récamier than he did about Homer at this period of his career. Yet he may have known all about them even then. He may have known all about them and forgotten all about them, and when the time came to unseal the inner chambers of his consciousness, perhaps he would remember them again.
Auntie had never handed him a muffin in such a way as that. Mrs. Sparks hadn't either. Ginger might sneer and call her Old Tidde-fol-lol, although not to her face—he was always very polite to her face—but there was no doubt she was absolutely a lady, and her muffins ... her muffins were extra.
This afternoon, Miss Foldal lingered over the tea table in most agreeable discourse. The fog was too thick for her to venture into the market place, where she wanted to go.
"If it's shopping you want, miss," said Mr. Harper, with an embarrassment that made her smile, "let me go and do it for you."
"I couldn't think of it, Mr. Harper."
"I will, miss, I'll be very glad to." She liked the deep eyes of this strikingly handsome young man.
"I couldn't think of it, Mr. Harper. I couldn't really. Besides, my shopping will keep till tomorrow."
"You know best, miss." There was resignation tempered by a certain chivalrous disappointment. Quite unconsciously, Mr. Harper was doing his utmost to rise to the standard of speech and manner of Miss Foldal, which was far beyond any he had yet experienced.
"I saw in the Evening Star that you won your match on Saturday."'
"Yes, miss, four-two." But the mention of the Evening Star was a stab. Every night the Evening Star presented its tragic problem.