"Been 'ere"—he sometimes dropped an aitch and sometimes did not—"this half hour."
The fact apparently surprised him, almost indeed upset him.
"This 'alf hour," he repeated, this time dropping the aitch to make a change.
"Oh," said Claude, disdaining the explanation which seemed to be expected.
He walked on, leaving the guardian to his gout.
The studio was lit up, and directly Claude opened the door he smelt coffee and something else—sausages, he fancied. At once he guessed why Charmian had arranged to meet him at the studio, instead of going there with him. He shut the door slowly. Yes, certainly, sausages.
"Charmian!" he called.
She came out from behind the screen, dressed in a very plain, workmanlike black gown, over which she was wearing a large butcher blue apron. Her sleeves were turned up and her face was flushed. Claude thought she looked younger than she usually did.
"What are you doing?"
"Cooking the dinner," she replied, in a practical voice. "It will be ready in a minute. Take off your coat and sit down."