"And I suppose, my clever dear," Bofinger said, taking the opportunity to promote familiarity. "You've made him think you're pining away?"
"I'm no such fool," she answered with an indefinable smile. "Indeed I tell him that I don't care the least bit for him. That if he wants to win my affection he's going to have a hard time, but—" she added with a laugh, "I let him believe that's not entirely impossible."
"You're right," Bofinger said appreciatively. "Of course you're right."
A weak knock sounded on the door. Bofinger, who did not wish to be seen, rose, looking anxiously at Sheila.
"It's only dinner," she explained, going to the door.
"Nevertheless," he said hurriedly, showing his back and going to the window, "don't let any one in."
Obedient to his request, she received the meal from the child who brought it, paying out the pennies and barring the door.
"Let's see," he said, returning to the table, "what you call a dinner."
On the table were arranged half a sausage, half a loaf of bread, and a pint of milk. He looked at them a moment and then with a contemptuous motion tossed the loaf and the sausage out of the window.
Sheila, with a cry, sprang forward.