"You're certainly some cook, Helen!" he said. The omelet was delicious, and the popovers a triumph. She ate only one, that he might have the others, and his enjoyment of them gave her a deep delight.
Across the little table a subtle current vibrated between them, intoxicating her, making her a little dizzy with emotions she would not analyze.
"I certainly am!" she laughed. "The cook-stove lost a genius when I became a real-estate lady." She was not blind to the shadow that crossed his face, but part of her intoxication was a perverseness that did not mind annoying him just a little bit.
"I hate to think about it," he said. His gravity shattered the iridescent glamor, making her grave, too, and the prosaic atmosphere of the office and its problems surrounded her.
"Well, you may not have it to think about much longer. What do you think? Is there going to be real trouble in Europe?"
"How do you mean?"
"War?"
"Oh, I doubt it. Not in this day and age. We've got beyond that, I hope." His casual dismissal of the possibility was a relief to her, but not quite an assurance.
"I hope so." She stirred her coffee, thoughtfully watching the glimmer of the spoon in the golden-brown depths. "I'll be glad when it blows over. That Balkan situation—If Austria stands by her ultimatum, and Servia does pull Russia into it, there's Germany. I don't know much about world politics, but one thing's certain. If there is war, the bottom'll drop out of my business."
He was startled.