“Do stay, then—please stay. I was rather— I mean, it would make a difference if you stayed. But I haven’t finished cooking yet. You’d have to wait a little.” “So much the better.” “I’ll be as quick as I can. There are plenty of books here.” He made a wry face. “Of course, if I must read I will,” he said; “but I’d much rather help cook.” “You can if you like.” “That’s jolly of you.” He threw his overcoat over the back of a chair, and together they made their way to the kitchen. “I had no idea a sole had its face powdered before being put in a fry-pan,” he observed, and made her laugh merrily. “It goes in like a white Parisian, and comes out a sunburnt Spaniard,” she returned. “You look as if some sun would do you no harm.” “I dare say it wouldn’t. Haven’t tried the experiment. Would you like to be useful and lay the table in the front room?” “Oh, can’t we eat here?” “If you’d rather, we can.” “Much rather. Everything piping hot, and you won’t be everlastingly running off to fetch dishes, will you?” It was so long since any one had minded what she did that Eve caught her breath in a half-sob. “What’s the matter?” “Nothing.” It had seemed rather cruel that this five minutes’ friend should say the very things Wynne never bothered to say. “But you—” “I did. I do silly things sometimes, but I’m not really hysterical.” “I know.” “How can you know?” “I seem to know you very well. That remarkable husband of yours contrived to put a lot of you into the characters of my play. I used to puzzle about it—used to wonder where his extraordinary intimate knowledge came from.” Eve was all enthusiasm in a second. “You really mean that?” “’Course. He used to show the women what to do in the most amazing way. Now I can see the source of his wisdom.” “That’s made me happy. It’s nice to feel one is of use, isn’t it? There are some knives and forks in the box there, and the plates are in the dresser.” It was because she could feel his eyes resting inquiringly upon her that she gave him this sudden direction. Presently they sat down to the first course. “This is jolly,” said Quiltan. “It’s a change for you. I wonder—” “What?” “Only whether you would think it quite so jolly if it were all.” For awhile he made no reply, then he laid down his knife and fork. “I say,” he said, “shall we be friends?” “I am sure we shall be.” “I mean— Well, this meeting of ours was never really intended, so one might excusably assume that it had never taken place. Wouldn’t we be justified, then, in talking to one another as we might have talked to ourselves if we had been alone?” Eve shivered. “It might not be a happy conversation.” “Even so—why not? We could be as honest as dreams are, and what we said could be as easily forgotten.” “I’m frightened of dreams,” said Eve. “They never come true.” “Won’t you tell me one that hasn’t come true? If it hasn’t come false there is hope for it yet.” “I suppose there is.” “Won’t you tell me that dream?”