"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.




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