"But surely," said Hermione, glancing up suddenly, "surely you don't—like Mulligan's, Mr. Geoffrey?"
"Like it, Miss Hermione? I—abominate it!"
"Oh!"
"Say, Geoff," mourned Spike, "don't I get any stuffin' after all?"
"Mr. Geoffrey, I've been wondering how you and Arthur met—and where, and—"
"Gee, Hermy!" Spike exclaimed, "you sure do talk! If you go on asking poor old Geoff s' many questions, he'll forget t' serve himself this week. Look at his plate!"
"Why, Mr. Geoffrey, do serve yourself, please, and—oh, my gracious! I've forgotten to give you your tea; I'm so sorry!"
Here Spike, having once again staved off the inevitable explanation, grew hilarious, and they laughed and talked the while they ate and drank with youthful, healthy appetites. And what a supper that was! What tongue could tell the gaiety and utter content that possessed them all three? What pen describe all Hermione's glowing beauty, or how her blue eyes, meeting eyes of grey would, for no perceptible reason, grow sweetly troubled, waver in their glance, and veil themselves beneath sudden, down-drooping lashes? What mere words could ever describe all the subtle, elusive witchery of her?
And Spike—ate, of course, in a blissful silence for the most part and whole-heartedly, his attention centred exclusively upon his plate; thus how should he know or care how often, across that diminished turkey, grey eyes looked into blue? As for Ravenslee, he ate and drank he knew and cared not what, content to sit and watch her when he might—the delicious curves of white neck and full, round throat, the easy grace of movement that spoke her vigorous youth; joying in the soft murmurs of her voice, the low, sweet ring of her laughter, and thrilling responsive to her warm young womanhood.
"But Mr. Geoffrey," she enquired suddenly, "if you hate Mulligan's as much as I do, whatever made you choose to live here?"