“A few more pictures and odds and ends. And I have got a carpet. That's Wither's doing. He came to see me in the winter and caught a cold, due to the bare boards, so he said. When he had recovered he made me go and buy a thick Turkey square. After that I had serious designs of forbidding him the rooms lest he should turn them into a boudoir altogether.”
They laughed over this idea. Clytie asked him whether he still kept the tripods before the fireplace, and whether the paraffin oil can in the corner harmonised well with the carpet. It was like a breath of fresh air to meet Kent again.
Suddenly he pointed to her plate.
“You are not eating anything.”
“I am not hungry,” said Clytie with some demureness.
“But if you have not had your evening meal, you'll get faint. What did you come down for, if you merely wanted to pick at the wing of a chicken and to put hardly any of it into your mouth?”
Then Clytie burst out into merry laughter. He was so downright and honest. Just the same as ever.
“Oh, you foolish Kent! I should have thought even you could have invented that.”
“Did you really want to see me?” he asked, brightening.
“Why, of course! Do you suppose I am devoid of human attributes?”