"I'm glad," he said warmly, and the memory of what she had been like during the days before was eclipsed by what she was now. "I was hoping you'd come around."
"Come, sit down," she said, indicating the place set for him, the gleaming silver, the neat napkin, the steaming coffee in the cup. "Don't let it get cold."
"Karen used to say that." And then he thought: That's a mistake; I mustn't mention Karen ever again. But Portia seemed not to have noticed. And she seemed so much like her now.
"I got tired of eating by myself," Portia said, sitting opposite him at the table. And she stole a sly look as she said, "And I'm afraid I acted badly."
"Not at all," Clifton said gallantly. "I understand how you felt. It's just taken a little time, that's all." He started eating, but his eyes were on her and the transformation of eyes that were no longer cold, lips that weren't scornful any more.
"Pity the poor sleepers," she said, laughing. "They can't enjoy a breakfast like this."
"Do you suppose," he said, endeavoring to keep the talk in the same vein, "that any might rise up when they smell that coffee?" He inhaled ecstatically. "Hmm. There's nothing like it."
"I hope I never make it that strong." And she giggled.
With a shock he found his knee touching hers. He drew away, wondering if it had been accidental. Later, when he tried to kiss her, she turned away, murmuring, "Not yet, Cliff. Give me time. It's so—so sudden."
He obeyed, turned his attention to other things. He could afford to wait. After all, there were nine years. A day or so—what did it matter?