"
He departed, closing the door behind him. Francis held out his
hands to Margaret. She rose slowly to her feet, looked in the
glass helplessly and then back at him. She was very beautiful
but a little dazed.
"Are we going to have luncheon?" she asked.
"Of course," he answered. "Did you think I meant to starve you?"
He picked up the long envelope which she had dropped upon the
carpet, and threw it on to the sofa. Then he drew up two chairs
to the table, and opened a small bottle of champagne.
"I hope you won't mind a picnic," he said. "Really, Brooks
hasn't done so badly--pate de foie gras, hot toast and Devonshire
butter. Let me spread some for you. A cold chicken afterwards,
and some strawberries. Please be hungry, Margaret."
She laughed at him. It occurred to him suddenly, with a little
pang, that he had never heard her laugh before. It was like
music.
"I'm too happy," she murmured.
"Believe me," he assured her, as he buttered a piece of toast,
"happiness and hunger might well be twins. They go so well
together. Misery can take away one's appetite. Happiness, when
one gets over the gulpiness of it, is the best tonic in the
world. And I never saw any one, dear, with whom happiness agreed
so well," he added, pausing in his task to bend over and kiss
her.
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