But even we working women sometimes," she went on, smiling bravely up at him, "have whims.

I had a whim, Stephen, to let you know that I am very stupidly fond of you, and although it isn't your fault and I expect nothing from you except that you do not alter our friendship, you just stand in the way whenever I think of marrying any one." Perhaps because speech seemed so inadequate, Dartrey said nothing.

He sat looking at her with a queer emotion in his soft, studious eyes, drumming a little on the table with his finger tips, not quite sure what it meant that his heart was beating like a young man's and a queer sensation of happiness was stealing through his whole being.
"Nothing in the world," he murmured, "could alter our friendship." "What you see before you," she went on, "is an oyster stew.

The true hostess, you see, studying her guest's special tastes.

It is very nearly cooked and if you do not pronounce it the most delicious thing you ever ate in your life, I shall be terribly disappointed." Dartrey sat as still as a man upon whom some narcotic influence rested, and his words sounded almost unnatural.
"I am convinced," he assured her, "that I shall be able to gratify you." "What you get afterwards you see upon the sideboard: cold partridges--both young birds though--ham, salad of my own mixing, and, behold! my one outburst of extravagance--strawberries.