"Not particularly; but I could be, with you for my inspiration. I could even be enthusiastic—"
"No—about your eyes."
"You are very frivolous—for a scientist," she said, scornfully; "please subdue your enthusiasm and bring me some wood. This fire is almost out."
When I had brought the wood, she presented me with a pail of hot water and pointed at the dishes on the breakfast-table.
"Never!" I cried, revolted.
"Then I suppose I must do them—"
She looked pensively at her scorched finger-tip, and, pursing up her red lips, blew a gentle breath to cool it.
"I'll do the dishes," I said.
Splashing and slushing the cups and saucers about in the hot water, I reflected upon the events of the last few days. The dog, stupefied by unwonted abundance of food, lay in the sunshine, sleeping the sleep of repletion; the pretty stenographer, all rosy from her culinary exertions, was removing the pies and setting them in neat rows to cool.