“In my present mood I prefer a hymn of hate.”
She buttered a slice of toast for him. “Well, of course, you’d feel like that.”
“Who wouldn’t?” He took the toast from her, and buried himself in his paper, so Jane buttered another slice for herself and ate it in protesting silence—plus a poached egg, and a cup of coffee rich with yellow cream and much sugar. Jane’s thinness made such indulgence possible. She enjoyed good food as she enjoyed a new frock, violets in the spring, the vista from the west front of the Capitol, free verse, and the book of Job. There were really no limits to Jane’s enthusiasms. She spoke again of the percolator. “It’s as nice as a kettle on the hob, isn’t it?”
“I simply love breakfast,” she continued.
“Is there anything you don’t love, Janey?” with a touch of irritation.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“You.”
He stared at her over the top of the sheet. “I like that!”