“Let us split the difference or strike an average,” I replied. “We will call it a ‘swarry’—tea and unusual trimmings.”
“Very well,” said she, “then you shall come to the kitchen and help. I will show you the raw material of the feast and you shall dictate the bill of fare.”
We accordingly adjourned to the kitchen where she fell to work on the preparations with the unhurried quickness that is characteristic of genuine efficiency, babbling pleasantly and pausing now and then to ask my advice (which was usually foolish and had to be blandly rejected) and treating the whole business with a sort of playful seriousness that was very delightful. And all the time I looked on in a state of mental chaos and bewilderment for which I can find no words. There she was, my friend, Madeline, sweet, gentle, feminine—the very type of gracious womanhood, and the more sweet and gracious by reason of these homely surroundings. For it is an appalling reflection, in these days of lady professors and women legislators, that to masculine eyes a woman never looks so dignified, so worshipful, so entirely desirable, as when she is occupied in the traditional activities that millenniums of human experience have associated with her sex. To me, Madeline, flitting about the immaculate little kitchen, neat-handed, perfect in the knowledge of her homely craft; smiling, dainty, fragile, with her gracefully flowing hair and the little apron that she had slipped on as a sort of ceremonial garment, was a veritable epitome of feminine charm. And yet, but a few feet away was a rosewood case that had once held a pistol; and even now, in Thorndyke’s locked cabinet—but my mind staggered under the effort of thought and refused the attempt to combine and collate a set of images so discordant.
“You are very quiet, Rupert,” she said, presently, pausing to look at me. “What is it? I hope you haven’t any special worries.”
“We all have our little worries, Madeline,” I replied, vaguely.
“Yes, indeed,” said she, still regarding me thoughtfully; and for the first time I noticed that she seemed to have aged a little since I had last seen her and that her face, in repose, showed traces of strain and anxiety. “We all have our troubles and we all try to put them on you. How did you think Barbara was looking?”
“Extraordinarily well. I was agreeably surprised.”
“Yes. She is wonderful. I am full of admiration of the way she has put away everything connected with—with that dreadful affair. I couldn’t have done it if I had been in her place. I couldn’t have let things rest. I should have wanted to know.”
“I have no doubt that she does. We all want to know. But she can do no more than the rest of us. Do you ever see Wallingford now?”
“Oh, dear, yes. He was inclined to be rather too attentive at first, but Barbara gave him a hint that spinsters who live alone don’t want too many visits from their male friends, so now he usually comes with her.”