“There’s a coffee stall at the corner where I buy provender; that’s why I brought you. There it is.” They stopped at the stall, with the proprietor of which Wynne seemed on excellent terms, and bought some hard-boiled eggs, “balls of chalk” as they are familiarly called. “A friend to every one that man is,” said Wynne as they proceeded on their way. “Does all manner of good turns to the queer folk whose business keeps ’em abroad late. He lent me three suppers once, at a time when I needed them badly.” From a glowing oven on wheels nearer his lodging they bought baked potatoes. “Put one in each pocket. Finest things in the world to keep your hands warm.” As she followed his advice he nodded encouragingly. “That’s the way. It’s a fire and a good dinner all in one. I’ve a very great regard for a baked potato; it’s the president of the republic of vegetables, as the hot pie is the dowager queen of confectionery.” “What do you call a hot pie?” “Just that! They used to be cooked in the streets in little portable ovens. Did you never meet a pieman?” “I don’t think so.” “Daresay not, for the last one died two years ago. A fine fellow he was. I went to his funeral.” “I’d love to have seen a real pieman. Didn’t Simple Simon meet one going to a fair?” “So it’s said.” “And now they’ve all gone for ever. How sad!” “Tell you what,” exclaimed Wynne, “there’s an old man Richmond way who sells hot turnovers. When the spring comes we might ’bus down there, have a walk in the park, and munch turnovers in the night on the way home.” “Yes, let’s do that.” Very ordinary affairs assume a delicate outline when approached in a romantic spirit. The idea of eating turnovers on the top of a ’bus does not sound very attractive, and yet to Wynne, as he suggested it, and to Eve as she listened, the promised expedition seemed full of the happiest possibilities. They felt the touch of a spring breeze blowing in their hair, and saw the whitey-green of the new leaves, and the blue sky turn to a lavender in which the stars appeared. Almost they could taste the good baked crust and the sour-sweet apples of the midnight feast. “D’you know,” said Eve, “I think, of all things in the world, the most glorious are those we mean to do.” They stopped before an old Queen Anne house, and producing a latchkey Wynne unlocked the door. “Top floor,” he said, “and rather a climb.” They mounted the creaky stairs, and he was puffing gustily when they reached the top landing. For a young man he seemed unduly exhausted. Striking a light on his boot, he entered and lit a shaded lamp. “Take off your hat and I’ll get the fire going. Look! I must have paid the rent, for it is actually laid.”