"I think I could make some toast, if pressed."
"I'm glad you can do something. You see; now the fire's going to burn. Where's the pantry? Let's go and look what's in it."
The fire certainly did show signs of an intention to behave as a fire ought to. I don't know how she had done it, it seemed simple enough, but there it was. Feeling more and more conscious that my conduct was altogether improper, not to say ridiculous, I led that child from the dining-room, across the kitchen, to the receptacle where Mrs Baines keeps her store of provisions. She looked round and round and I knew she was not impressed.
"There doesn't seem to be very much to eat, does there?"
The same thing had struck me. The shelves seemed full of emptiness, and there was nothing hanging from the hooks. Still, as coming from an entire stranger, the remark was not in the best of taste.
"You see," I explained, feebly enough, "it's Christmas."
That child's eyes opened wider than ever; I was on the point of warning her that if she went on like that they would occupy the larger part of her face.
"Of course it's Christmas. Do you suppose that I don't know it's Christmas? That's just the reason why you should have more to eat than ever. Some people eat more at Christmas than they do during all the rest of the year put together."
This was such a truly astonishing statement to make that, unless I wished to enter into a preposterous argument, I had nothing to say. I also realised that it did not become me to enter at any length, to a mere child--and she an utter stranger!--into the reasons why, at Christmas, it had come to pass that my larder did not happen to be so well filled as it might have been. I merely endeavoured to pin her to the subject in hand.
"There are eggs and bacon and bread, and I believe there's tea--all the materials for the morning meal. I don't know what else you require."