As we talked we walked along the shore. And we climbed the steep path and stood beneath the pine. The dome of seaweed still smoked bravely, and before the seat against the pine was set a little table, upon stakes. It was just large enough for two, and upon it were all things fitting—and no more. No cloth, only the bare white boards of pine, rubbed smooth.
“Now, governess,” I said, “the bake is done. Do you sit there, and I will serve you.”
“No, Adam,” she cried, “for I must help.”
She always had her will, that red-haired governess. So I took my fork and opened the smoking dome, and together we set upon the table corn and sweet potatoes and a chicken and a fish and the lobsters; and, last of all, a great pan of clams. And the rest, upon the hot stones, I covered again with seaweed. And as I pitched the weed, I heard Eve laughing.
“Adam,” she said, “look here. And there are two of us.”
I turned and saw the table filled to overflowing, and no place left large enough to set a plate; and Eve sitting on the seat, and laughing so that tears stood in her eyes.
“I should have made the table larger,” I said. “But we need no plates. What would the first man have done with a plate, Eve?”
“Or with baked clams?” she asked. “But we are not in Eden.”
“I am,” I said.
And she spoke hastily: “At least the other guest shall not want.”