“Forever,” he said.
An hour later they were seated tete-à-tete at Gethryn’s little table. She had not permitted him to poach the eggs, and perhaps they were better on that account.
“Bachelor habits must cease,” she cried, with a little laugh, and Gethryn smiled in doubtful acquiescence.
“Do you like grilled sardines on toast?” she asked.
“I seem to,” he smiled, finishing his fourth; “they are delicious—yours,” he added.
“Oh, that tea!” she cried, “and not one bit of sugar. What a hopelessly careless man!”
But Gethryn jumped up, crying, “Wait a moment!” and returned triumphantly with a huge mass of rock-candy—the remains of one of Clifford’s abortive attempts at “rye-and-rock.”
They each broke off enough for their cups, and Gethryn, tasting his, declared the tea “delicious.” Yvonne sat, chipping an egg and casting sidelong glances at Gethryn, which were always met and returned with interest.
“Yvonne, I want to tell you a secret.”