She put cushions at his back, and sat down on the floor beside him, and laid her head on his knee.
"There's a sole for supper," said she, in a dreamy voice, "and a roast chicken. And an apple tart. I made it." Maggie had always been absurdly proud of the things that she could do.
"Clever Maggie."
"I made it because I thought you'd like it."
"Kind Maggie."
"You didn't get any of those things yesterday, or the day before, did you?"
She was always afraid of giving him what he had had at home. That was one of the difficulties, she felt, of a double household.
"I forget," he said, a little wearily, "what I had yesterday."
Maggie noticed the weariness and said no more.
He laid his hand on her head and stroked her hair. He could always keep Maggie quiet by stroking her hair. She shifted herself instantly into a position easier for his hand. She sat still, only turning to the caressing hand, now her forehead, now the nape of her neck, now her delicate ear.