"Have you read Meredith's last?" asked Mrs. Archinard from the sofa. "Hilda is reading it to me in the evenings. We began it, ah! long, long ago. I have sympathy for Meredith, an _intimité!_ It is so I feel, see things--super-subtly. Strange how coarsely objective some minds are! Did you order the oysters for my dinner, Hilda, and the ice from Gagé's--_pistache?_ I hope you impressed _pistache_. You will dine with Hilda, of course, Peter; I have my dinner here; I am not yet strong enough to sit through a meal. And then you must talk to me about Meredith. I always find you most suggestive--such new lights on old things. And Verhaeren, too; do you care for Verhaeren? Morbid? Yes, perhaps, but that is a truism--not like you, Peter. '_Les apparus dans mes chemins_,' poor, modern, broken, bleeding soul! We must talk of Verhaeren. Just now I feel very sleepy. You will excuse me if I simply _sans gêne_ turn over and take a nap? I can often sleep at this hour. Hilda, show Peter the Burne-Jones Chaucer over there. Hilda doesn't find him limpid, sweet, healthy enough for Chaucer; but _nous sommes tous les enfants malades_ nowadays. There is a beauty, you know, in that. Talk it over." Hilda and Peter sat down obediently side by side on the distant little _canapé_ before the Burne-Jones Chaucer. They went over the pages, not paying much attention to the woodcuts, but looking down favorite passages together. The description of "my swete" in "The Book of the Duchess," the complaint of poor Troilus, and, once more, Arcite's death. The quiet room was very quiet, and they looked up from the pages now and then to smile, perhaps a little sadly, at one another. When the dinner was announced Hilda said, as they went into the dining-room-- "If your courage fails you, just say so frankly. I have very childish tastes and childish fare." Indeed, half a cold chicken and a dish of rice constituted the repast. A bottle of claret stood by Odd's place, and there was a white jar filled with buttercups on the table; but even Rosalie seemed depressed by the air of meagreness, and gave them a rather _effaré_ glance as they sat down. Odd suspected that the cold chicken was in his honor. He had come to the conclusion that Hilda was capable of dining off rice alone. "Delightful!" he said. The chicken and rice were indeed very good, but Hilda saw that he ate very little. "I make no further apologies," she said, smiling at him over the buttercups; "your hunger be upon your own head." "I am not hungry, dear." Hilda had to do most of the talking, but they were both rather silent. It was a happy silence to Hilda, full of a loving trust. When he spoke, it was in a voice of the same gentle fatigue that his eyes showed; but as the eyes rested upon her she felt that the past and the present had surely joined hands. CHAPTER X