Page:E Nesbit - The Literary Sense.djvu/56

44 enough. She was leaning back in the chair laughing at him.

"How did you know me?" he asked angrily.

"Your tramp-voice might have deceived me," she said, "you did do it most awfully well! But, you see, I'd been looking at you for ages before you woke."

"Then good night," said he.

"Good night!" said she; "but it's not seven yet!"

"You're expecting someone," he said, pointing dramatically to the table.

"Oh, that!" she said; "yes—that was for—for the poor man as had seen better days! There's nothing but eggs—but I couldn't turn a dog from my door on such a night—till I'd fed it!"

"Do you really mean—?"

"Why not?"

"It's glorious!"

"It's a picnic."

"But?" said he.

"Oh—well! Go if you like!" said she.

It was not only eggs: it was all sorts of things from that stores box. They ate, and they talked.