before he finds another who will make clothes for herself year in and year out so that he can economize and fill the place with rocks and chisels for his enervating noises. Perhaps he thinks one gives up one's youth as freely as if one had two or three more in the cupboard—bah, merci alors! . . . And the prince there, who thinks so much that he doesn't eat his salad—dites, Prince!"
"He thinks things he doesn't dare say."
"Meanwhile one looks at the coffee. You are coming into the kitchen, Prince?"
"Why do you call me Prince?" asked Grover, lighting a cigarette and boldly offering it to her. As nonchalantly as though it hadn't touched his lips she accepted, and they waited for the coffee to percolate. The air was heavy with clouds of emotional rain.
"Because you are charming," she said with a smile that no one, Grover thought, would be justified in misconstruing as an overture.
"And on that fatal day, when you suddenly take it into your head to desert the camp—"
She interrupted. "I didn't say it!"
"But if you do! And if a prince were waiting outside—had been waiting and waiting?"
The coffee was ready to pour. "What a conspiracy!" she laughed. "Anyone would say I was not fond of Oscar. But I am."
"And the noises? And the monotony?"
She motioned him to his seat at the table again.
