A tap at the door intruded itself into her reverie. "Come," she called. There was a brief silence, then an apologetic masculine cough.
Helen turned suddenly. "Oh, it's you," she cried. "I thought it was the janitor!"
"Sorry you're disappointed," returned Hilliard jovially. "Sit down on the rug again, please,—you've no idea how comfortable you looked,—and I'll join you presently." He was drawing numerous small parcels from the capacious pockets of his coat and placing them upon a convenient chair.
"If one might enquire—" began Helen.
"Certainly, ma'am. There's oysters and crackers and parsley and roquefort, and a few other things I thought we might need. I know you've got curry-powder and celery-salt, and if her gracious ladyship will give me a pitcher, I'll go on a still hunt for cream."
"You've come to supper, then, I take it," said Helen.
"Yes'm. Once in a while, in a newspaper office, some fellow is allowed a few minutes off the paper. Don't know why, I'm sure, but it has now happened to me. I naturally thought of you, and the chafing dish, and the curried oysters you have been known to cook, and——"
Helen laughed merrily. "Your heart's in the old place, isn't it—at the end of your esophagus?"
"That's what it is. My heart moves up into my throat at the mere sight of you." The colour flamed into her cheeks. "Now will you be good?" he continued enquiringly. "Kindly procure for me that pitcher I spoke of."
He whistled happily as he clattered down the uncarpeted stairs, and Helen smiled to herself. "Bohemia has its consolations as well as its trials," she thought. "This would be impossible anywhere else."