She was half asleep in the armchair by the fire—she had laid the supper, that dreary little supper for two, and now lay huddled by the dying embers, cold, in spite of the thick heat of the night.
"Janey," whispered Nigel, as he kissed her.
She started.
"Oh, you're back at last!—what a time you've been!"
"I'm sorry, dear. Come now, I'll light the lamp, and we'll have supper."
She rose listlessly, and sat down opposite him.
"It's a rotten supper—I don't cook so well as Novice Unity Agnes."
"Nonsense! you cook quite well enough for me. Janey—will you come and cook for me in London?"
"In London?"—she stared at him blankly.
"Yes, I must go back to my work—and I can't leave you here."