“Oh, I like it, father; I enjoy it. I could not possibly stay at home.”
“Very well, my dear child. You are a good girl. But, Sylvia dear, it strikes me that we had better not have any more frying done; it must consume a great quantity of fuel. Now, that chop might have been boiled in a small saucepan, and it really would have been quite as nutritious. And, my dear, there would have been the broth—the liquor, I mean—that it had been boiled in; it would have made an excellent soup with rice in it. I have been lately compiling some recipes for living what is called the unluxurious life. When I have completed my little recipes I will hand them down to posterity. I shall publish them. I quite imagine that they will have a large sale, and may bring me in some trifling returns—eh, Sylvia?”
Sylvia made no answer.
“My dear,” said her father suddenly, “I have noticed of late that you are a little extravagant in the amount of coals you use. It is your only extravagance, my dear child, so I will not say much about it.”
“But, father, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“There is smoke—smoke issuing from the kitchen chimney at times when there ought to be none,” said Mr. Leeson in a severe voice. “But there, dear, I won’t keep you now. I expect to have a busy afternoon. I am feeling so nicely after our simple little lunch, my dear daughter.”
Mr. Leeson touched Sylvia’s smooth cheek with his lips, went into the sitting-room, and shut the door.
“The fire must be quite out by now,” she said to herself. “Poor, poor father! Oh dear! oh dear! if he discovers that Jasper is here I shall be done for. Now that I know the difference which Jasper’s presence makes, I really could not live without her.”
She listened for a moment, noticed that all was still in the big sitting-room (as likely as not her father had dropped asleep), and then, turning to her left, went quickly away in the direction of the kitchen. When she entered the kitchen she locked the door. There was a clear and almost smokeless fire in the range, and drawn up close to it was a table covered with a white cloth; on the table were preparations for a meal.
“Well, Sylvia,” said Jasper, “and how did he enjoy his chop? How much of it did he give to you, my dear?”