“Couldn’t we make a common fund and have one meal together each day. I’d cook it here.”
His expression brightened instantly.
“You would? You’d come each day?”
“If you consent.”
Hitherto her comings had been sporadic—too sporadic. He had felt, when she was absent, the consciousness of something lacking.
“I should like you to come here every day,” he said.
He was willing to accept a routine of her society, though rebelling against a time-table for meals. She smiled as the thought crossed her mind, but to have voiced it would have been to sacrifice the gains she had made.
“If you consent,” she repeated.
“All right; do what you will,” he said.
So every afternoon Eve cooked a meal over a grubby little gas-ring, assisted by a methylated spirit stove, and had the satisfaction of seeing her labours rewarded by a slightly added tinge of colour to his cheeks.