“It wasn’t their honeymoon so much,” I said triumphantly, “as it was ours.”
As we came through the long cross street toward our house we had a glimpse of Nichola beside our area gate, watching for us. But when we reached the gate she was not in sight and though we waited for a moment on our steps she did not come to open the door. It was not until Pelleas had lighted the fire in the drawing-room and we sat before it that we heard her coming up the stairs.
She brought us tea, neither volunteering a word of greeting nor, save by a word and with averted eyes, responding to ours. But as she was leaving the room she stood for a moment in the doorway.
“How’d your lunch go?” she demanded.
Instantly Pelleas and I looked at each other—we never can remember not to do that. What had Nichola given us in that lunch?
“Why, Nichola,” said I, “Nichola, your lunches are always—that is, I never knew your lunches not to be—”
“You are a wonderful cook, you know, Nichola,” said Pelleas earnestly.
Nichola looked down upon us, her little eyes winking fast, and she nodded her old gray head.
“Yah!” she said, “what I put in it was fruit an’ crackers. An’ I see you’ve give it away.”
“O, Nichola—” we began. But as captain of the moment she would not sally forth to parley.