She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. ‘Come, mademoiselle. He did not spend more time with her. She breathed deeply of the starch of his shirt. The popcorn dwindled to a half a bucket, his heart settled into its normal routine. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel.
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