“Oh, it will be all right now,” said Mrs. Belmore serenely. She added with some irrelevancy, “I’ve left the children to undress each other; they’ve been so good. It’s been such a different day, though, from what we had planned.”
“It’s too bad that you have to get the tea.”
“Oh, I don’t mind that a bit.”
She had tucked up the silken skirt of her gown and was deftly measuring out coffee—after the swift, preliminary shaking of the fire with which every woman takes possession of a kitchen—pouring the water into the coffee-pot from the steaming kettle, and then vibrating between the kitchen closet and the butler’s pantry with the quick, capable movements of one who knows her ground thoroughly. “Really, it isn’t any trouble. Margaret leaves half of the things ready, you know. If you’ll just lift down that dish of salad for me—and the cold chicken is beside it. I hate to ask you to get up, but—Thank you. How good the coffee smells! I know you always like the coffee I make.”
“You bet I do,” said Mr. Belmore with fervor. “Say, petty, you don’t think you could come out now and take a look at the garden? I’m almost sure the peas are beginning to show.”
“No, I’m afraid there isn’t time. We’ll have to give it up for this Sunday.” She paused for a great effort. “If you’d like to go by yourself, dear—”
“Wouldn’t you mind?”
She paused again, looking at him with her clear-eyed seriousness.
“I don’t think I mind now, but I might—afterwards.”
If he had hesitated, it was for a hardly appreciable second. “And I don’t want to go,” he protested stoutly, “it wouldn’t be the same thing at all without you.”