"I don't know," I said, wearily. "I'm too tired to eat."
"Take it away," said Aubrey again.
"My poor dear child!" cried Mary. "Too tired to eat! But eating will do you good. Taste a bit! Try it, Missis dear!"
"No, I don't seem to care for it, and I was very hungry at seven o'clock. Don't you remember, Aubrey, I said coming up in the elevator how hungry I was?"
"I remember," said my husband. "But you are just like me. If you don't have your meals at a certain time your appetite goes."
At that Mary lifted her head and looked at us through her spectacles. Never were four more innocent eyes to be met with than ours. We looked at her calmly until she lowered her gaze. It was not an impudent nor a defiant look she gave us. It was a trial of wills. Our two against her one.
She removed the soup without more ado, and brought in a broiled chicken. Oh, oh! Shall I ever forget it! I was so hungry by that time that I could have bitten a piece out of my plate.
Mary stood by with a face as anxious as if she were standing by the death-bed of her child.
Aubrey lifted it with the carving-fork, looked at me, and said:
"Do you feel as if you could eat a little bit of this?"