“I never saw anyone quite so conceited as you about the excellence of your cook, Miss Ley.”
“Just as it is far easier for a man to be a philosopher than a gentleman, my dear, it is less difficult to cultivate a Christian disposition than good cooking.”
They went downstairs, and Miss Ley ordered a bottle of Miss Dwarris’ champagne to be opened. She had a cynical belief in the efficacy of a square meal to relieve most spiritual torments; but besides, heroically—for she was an indolent woman—took pains to amuse her guest. She talked of many things, gaily and tenderly, while Frank, the dinner finished, smoked innumerable pipes. At last Big Ben struck twelve, and cheerful now, resigned to philosophic doubt, he rose to his feet. Frank took both Miss Ley’s hands.
“You’re a jewel of a woman. I was quite wretched when I came, and you’ve put new life into me.”
“Not I!” she cried. “The chocolate souffle and the champagne. I have always observed that the human soul is peculiarly susceptible to the culinary art. Personally, I never feel so spiritual as when I’ve slightly overeaten myself. I wish you wouldn’t squeeze my hands.”
“You’re the only woman I know who’s as interesting to talk to as a man.”
“Faith, and I believe if I were twenty years younger the child would propose to me!”
“You have only to say the word, and I’ll lead you to the altar.”
“I’m a proud woman this day to get an offer of marriage in my fifty-seventh year. But where, my dear, if I married you, would you go to have tea in the afternoon?”
Frank laughed, but in his voice when he answered there was something very like a sob.