"You really miss----"
"I wish I were a poet, so I could tell you adequately. But you haven't
said you missed me, Claire. Didn't you, a teeny bit? Wouldn't it have
been tolerable to have poor old Jeff along, to drive down dangerous
hills----"
"And fill grease-cups! Nasty and stickum on the fingers!"
"Yes, I'd have done that, too. And invented surprises along the way. I'm
a fine surpriser! I've arranged for a motor-boat so we can explore the
lake here tomorrow. That's why I had you wait here instead of coming on
to Kalispell. Tomorrow morning, unfortunately, I have to hustle back and
catch a train--called to California, and possibly a northern trip. But
meantime---- By now, my driver must have sneaked my s'prises into the
kitchen."
"What are they?"
"Guess."
"Food. Eats. Divine eats."
"Maybe."
"But what? Please, sir. Claire is so hungry."
"We shall see in time, my child. Uncle Jeff is not to be hurried."
"Ah--let--me--see--now! I'll kick and scream!"
From New York Jeff had brought a mammoth picnic basket. To the fried
chicken ordered for dinner he added sealed jars of purée of wood pigeon,
of stuffed artichokes prepared by his club chef; caviar and anchovies; a
marvelous nightmare-creating fruit cake to go with the whipped cream;
two quarts of a famous sherry; candied fruits in a silver box. Dinner
was served not on the dining-porch but before the fire in the
Barmberrys' living-room. Claire looked at the candied fruits, stared at
Jeff rather queerly--as though she was really thinking of some one
else--and mused: "I didn't know I cared so much for these foolish luxuries. Tonight, I'd
like a bath, just a tiny bit scented, and a real dressing-table with a
triple mirror, and French talc, and come down in a dinner-gown---- Oh, I
have enjoyed the trip, Jeff. But my poor body does get so tired and
dusty, and then you treacherously come along with these things that
you've magicked out of the mountains and---- I'm not a pioneer woman,
after all. And Henry B. is not a caveman. See him act idolatrously
toward his soup."
"I feel idolatrous. I'd forgotten the supreme ethical importance of the
soup. I'll never let myself forget it again," said Mr. Boltwood, in the
tone of one who has come home.
Claire was grateful to Jeff that he did not let her go on being
grateful. He turned the talk to Brooklyn. He was neat and explicit--and
almost funny--in his description of an outdoor presentation of
Midsummer Night's Dream, in which a domestic and intellectual lady
weighing a hundred and eighty-seven stageside had enacted Puck. As they
sat after dinner, as Claire shivered, he produced a knitted robe, and
pulled it about her shoulders, smiling at her in a lonely, hungry way.
She caught his hand.