Time was, perhaps, when seeing her thus he might have taken her hand.
"But don't look as if you already regretted making the promise," she went on to protest. "I assure you it won't hurt a bit; not any more than having your hair cut. By the way, why do you wear your hair so short? Oughtn't a poet to have long, noble locks? They come out very effectively in clay, those long, noble locks. I hope I'm not making your bed too hard. Come now, Morgan, are you still so heavy-hearted? What can I do to make you merry?"
"Take supper with me," he responded quickly, with an atoning flash of briskness, the while he upbraided himself for oppressing her with his dejection. "It will be a real Bohemian supper."
"How nice! I'm dying with hunger."
"In here, I mean," he explained. "I make my own supper."
"I know. We heard all about the inside of that cupboard."
"You won't mind sitting on the hard chair?"
"No. What's the menu?"
"Bread and cheese and——"
"Not beer, I hope," she interrupted hastily.