“Not yet,” replied Mr. Brunt, laconic.

“I wonder if my dish is hot,” she said, bending down at the oven. She half expected him to look for her, but he took no notice. She was hungry and she poked her finger eagerly in the pot to see if her brussels sprouts and potatoes and meat were ready. They were not.

“Don't you think it's rather jolly bringing dinner?” she said to Mr. Brunt.

“I don't know as I do,” he said, spreading a serviette on a corner of the table, and not looking at her.

“I suppose it is too far for you to go home?”

“Yes,” he said. Then he rose and looked at her. He had the bluest, fiercest, most pointed