"Well, you wouldn't expect me to have the same button off another coat, would you?"
"I would not have you in any single particular in any degree different from what you are now," Gardiner declared. He dropped into a chair. "As a matter of fact, they shot me out yesterday; and if it comes to letting people know, I went straight off to Starbridge under the impression I should find you in the bosom of your family. I was shown in right on top of a Belgian work party. Awful. I came out again with my tail between my legs. That upset I couldn't even face you. I spent the night in the fields."
"It was raining."
"Quite; it was. I was under a tarpaulin on top of a stack. Oh yes, thanks, I slept like a hog. I've been dropping off at intervals ever since, in the train or any old place. Making up for lost time, I suppose."
His speech ended in a yawn. Lettice stole a glance at him out of the tail of her eye. "Were you sleeping badly right up to the end?" she asked.
"Yes; it's been rather rotten. Never mind, all over now. It's good to be out. Brrr! You leave that toasting fork alone. Drop it! My job. You're tired; you've been fagging all day in the B.M. Siéntese usted, señorita."
"You'll burn it," cried Lettice, defensively holding on. He looked up lazily; his black eyes were melting soft, his voice a seductive murmur.
"Ah! prendita mía, don't you know I'm going to make your toast for you every evening of your life?"
Lettice was extinguished. She sat down, unwilling but unresisting. He could make toast, and he could do what was far more difficult and unusual—make her obey him. He spoke lightly, but he was watching her all the time; he beset her with his eyes. They said bold things, but he did not press them; he made her color, and he laughed, yet he did not touch her. Why he did it? That was quite plain; he was hoarding up his happiness, playing cat and mouse, holding her life in his hand, as he had sworn he could, without closing his fingers on it. Lettice knew not whether to be glad or sorry at the respite.