Faith looked sober again, at the idea that she should have failed in frankness. Then put her hand in his and looked smiling up at him.
"There is one thing I will not keep from you any longer,"—she said.
"What is that?—the seal of this little compact of plain speaking?"
"Strawberries!"—
"Only another style of nomenclature,"—said Mr. Linden.
"You must take the trouble to go into the other room for them."
And light-heartedly Faith preceded him into the other room, where the dinner was ready. A very simple dinner, but Mrs. Derrick would not have had anything less than a roast chicken for Mr. Linden, and the lettuce and potatoes did very well for a summer day; and Faith's waiting on table made it only more pleasant. Talk flowed all the while; of a thousand and one things; for Mrs. Derrick's sympathies had a wider range since Mr. Linden had been in Germany. Indeed the talk was principally between those two. It was a remarkably long dinner, without multiplication of courses—there was so much to say! Many were the pleasant things swallowed with the strawberries. It is said hunger is the best sauce; it's not true; happiness is a better.
And then—what came then? Truly, the same over again—looking and talking, without the strawberries. Which were not wanted; especially when Faith was dressed out with roses, as she was presently after dinner. As she would wash the tumblers and spoons in the dining-room, spite of all Mrs. Derrick could say, so Mr. Linden would stay there too; not indeed to do anything but look on, and bestow the roses as aforesaid. Talking to her sometimes in English, sometimes in French, with preliminary instructions in German.
"Mignonette," he said, "I have three letters for you to read."
"Letters, Endecott!—Who has written to me?"