"Ah—yes, I've been looking for that all the week. You see, when I made my table, by some miscalculation, one leg persisted in coming out shorter than the others, which necessitated its being shored up by a book until I made that block."
"Mr. Peter Vibart's Virgil book!" she said, nodding to the twig.
"Y-e-s!" said I, somewhat disconcerted.
"It was a pity to use a book," she went on, still very, intent upon the twig, "even if that book does belong to a man with such a name as Peter Vibart."
Now presently, seeing I was silent, she stole a glance at me, and looking, laughed.
"But," she continued more seriously, "this has nothing to do with you, of course, nor me, for that matter, and I was trying to tell you how hungry—how hatefully hungry I was, and I couldn't beg, could I, and so—and so I—I—"
"You came back," said I.
"I came back."
"Being hungry."
"Famishing!"