"Come," he said, "try that—slowly."
"Oh!" she murmured, shrinking.
"Don't be silly; do as I tell you! There's nothing to be bashful about; I know you're not an angel—your having an appetite doesn't astonish me."
"How good you are!" she muttered; "what must you think of me?"
"Eat," commanded Kincaid; "ask me what I think of you afterwards."
She was evidently in no danger of committing the mistake that he had looked for—his difficulty was, not to restrain, but to persuade her; nor was her reluctance the outcome of embarrassment alone.
"It has gone," she said, shaking her head; "I am really not hungry now."
He encouraged her till she began. Then he retired behind the newspaper, to distress her as little as might be by his presence. At the end of a quarter of an hour he put The Times down. The eggshells were empty, and he stretched himself and addressed her:
"Better?"
"Much better," she said, with a ghost of a smile.