She plumped it down on the table.
"Mrs. Brigg _wouldn't_ make toast," she explained. "And I didn't like to
keep you."
"Let's make some ourselves," said Julian, with a happy inspiration.
He felt that to perform a common and a cosey act must draw them together,
and awaken in the lady's breast a happy and progressive confidence. She
was evidently surprised at the suggestion.
"Well, I never!" she ejaculated. "You are a queer one. You are taking a
rise out of me now!"
"Not at all. I like making toast. Give me a fork. I'll do it, and you sit
there and direct me."
She laughed and produced the fork from a mean cupboard which did duty as
a sideboard.
"Here you are, then. 'Cut it pretty thick. It ain't so high class, but it
eats better. That's it. Sit on this stool, dear."
She kicked an ancient leather one to the hearth, and Julian, tucking his
long-tailed frock coat under him, squatted down and thrust forward the
bread to the bars of the grate. The lady opened the lid of the teapot and
examined the brew with an anxious eye.
"It's drawin' beautiful," she declared. "Well, I'm d--" she caught
herself up short. "Well this is bally funny," she said. "Turn it,
dearie."
Julian obeyed, and they began to talk.
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