“Then,” he went on, smiling, “you must invite me to be your guest. When I look at that partridge, Miss Jocelyn, hunger makes me shameless. I want a second-joint—indeed I do!”
Her sensitive lips trembled into a smile, but she could not meet his eyes yet.
“Our Thanksgiving dinner would horrify you,” she said—“a pickerel taken on a gang-hook, woodcock shot in Brier Brook swales, and this partridge—” She hesitated.
“And that partridge a victim to his own rash passion for winter grapes,” added Gordon, laughing.
The laugh did them both good.
“I could make a chestnut stuffing,” she said, timidly.
“Splendid! Splendid!” murmured Gordon.
“Are you really coming?” she asked.
Something in her eyes held his, then he answered with heightened color, “I am very serious, Miss Jocelyn. May I come?”
She said “Yes” under her breath. There was color enough in her lips and cheeks now.