After a while, conscious of hunger, he rose to take leave. He must be getting back to St. Albans. But might he be permitted to come back later in the afternoon? Miss Anne reddened. It outraged her sense of hospitality to send a guest away from her house on a three-mile walk for food. And yet——
“Mr. Pujol,” she said bravely, “I would ask you to stay to luncheon if I had anything to offer you. But I am single handed, and, with Jean’s illness, I haven’t given much thought to housekeeping. The woman who does some of the rough work won’t be back till six. I hate to let you go all those miles—I am so distressed——”
“But, mademoiselle,” said Aristide. “You have some bread. You have water. It has been a banquet many a day to me, and this time it would be the most precious banquet of all.”
“I can do a little better than that,” faltered Miss Anne. “I have plenty of eggs and there is bacon.”
“Eggs—bacon!” cried Aristide, his bright eyes twinkling and his hands going up in the familiar gesture. “That is superb. Tiens! you shall not do the cooking. You shall rest. I will make you an omelette au lard—ah!”—he kissed the tips of his fingers—“such an omelette as you have not eaten since you were in France—and even there I doubt whether you have ever eaten an omelette like mine.” His soul simmering with omelette, he darted towards the door. “The kitchen—it is this way?”
“But, Mr. Pujol——!” Miss Anne laughed, protestingly. Who could be angry with the vivid and impulsive creature?
“It is the room opposite Jean’s—not so?”
She followed him into the clean little kitchen, half amused, half flustered. Already he had hooked off the top of the kitchen range. “Ah! a good fire. And your frying-pan?” He dived into the scullery.
“Please don’t be in such a hurry,” she pleaded. “You will have made the omelette before I’ve had time to lay the cloth, and it will get cold. Besides, I want to learn how to do it.”
“Trés bien,” said Aristide, laying down the frying-pan. “You shall see how it is made—the omelette of the universe.”