Crossing the room, he pushed open a door which apparently led into the larder, and then paused for a moment on the threshold.
"You needn't try to escape," he added, turning back to me. "I am not going to send for the police."
"I don't care what you do," I whispered, "as long as you hurry up with some grub."
Lying there in the sort of semi-stupor that comes from utter exhaustion, I listened to him moving about in the larder apparently getting things ready. For the moment all thoughts of danger or recapture had ceased to disturb me. Even the unexpected fashion in which I was being treated did not strike me as particularly interesting or surprising: my whole being was steeped in a sense of approaching food.
I saw him re-enter the room, carrying a saucepan, which he placed on a small stove alongside the fireplace. There was the scratching of a match followed by the pop of a gas-ring, and half-closing my eyes I lay back in serene and silent contentment.
I was aroused by the chink of a spoon, and the splash of something liquid being poured out. Then I saw my host coming towards me, carrying a large steaming china bowl in his hand.
"Here you are," he said. "Do you think you can manage to feed yourself?"
I didn't trouble to answer. I just seized the cup and spoon, and the next moment I was wolfing down a huge mouthful of warm bread and milk that seemed to me the most perfect thing I had ever tasted. It was followed rapidly by another and another, all equally beautiful.
My host stood by watching me with a sort of half-amused interest.
"I shouldn't eat it quite so fast," he observed. "It will do you more good if you take it slowly."