There was a thick jug full of coffee, another of milk, a large omelet, a dish of fruit, rolls, butter and honey.
"Now," she said when it was set before them, "how do you like your coffee?"
"As it should be according to the orientals—black as sin, hot as hell, sweet as—love," he finished, lingering over the word.
She poured his out, and handed it to him, black as he desired.
"I can get on very well without either the sin or the love," she remarked as she helped herself to a cup that was mostly milk, and with no sugar in it.
"I thought all girls liked sweet things and lived for love," he said as he set about serving the omelet.
"There's a lot more in life for women nowadays than love."
"Being in love is a woman's normal condition," he said in a forcible, dogmatic manner.
Pansy smiled.
"I always thought you had come out of the Ark, and now I'm sure of it. You've got such antiquated, early Victorian ideas about women. They mustn't wear knickers. They must always be yearning after some mere male. Very flattering to him, I'm sure," she finished, wrinkling a disdainful nose.