“Well,” she sadly consented, and he allowed her to serve his plate.
“More yet, please,” he said. “A lot!”
“Is that enough?”
“Well, for the first helping. And don’t offer to cut it up for me! My proud spirit draws the line at cutting up. Besides, a fork will do the work with goulash.”
“Is that what it is?” she asked, but not apparently because she cared to know.
“Unless you prefer to naturalize it as stew. It seems to have come in with the Hungarian bands. I suppose you have them in—”
“Tuskingum? No, it is too small. But I heard them at a restaurant in New York where my brother took us.”
“In the spirit of scientific investigation? It’s strange how a common principle seems to pervade both the Hungarian music and cooking—the same wandering airs and flavors—wild, vague, lawless harmonies in both. Did you notice it?”
Ellen shook her head. The look of gloom which seemed to Breckon habitual in it came back into her face, and he had a fantastic temptation to see how far he could go with her sad consciousness before she should be aware that he was experimenting upon it. He put this temptation from him, and was in the enjoyment of a comfortable self-righteousness when it returned in twofold power upon him with the coming of some cutlets which capriciously varied the repast.
“Ah, now, Miss Kenton, if you were to take pity on my helplessness!”