“Why, I’m sure I don’t know,” said little Eve Edgarton.  “But I should guess it might be about eight or nine o’clock.  Are you hungry?”

With infinite agility she scrambled to her knees and went darting off on all fours like a squirrel into some mysterious, clattery corner of the darkness from which she emerged at last with one little gray flannel arm crooked inclusively around a whole elbowful of treasure.

“There,” she drawled.  “There.  There.  There.”

Only the soft earthy thud that accompanied each “There” pointed the slightest significance to the word.  The first thud was a slim, queer, stone flagon of vodka.  Wanly, like some far pinnacle on some far Russian fortress, its grim shape loomed in the sallow lantern light.  The second thud was a dust-colored basket of dates from some green-spotted Arabian desert.  Vaguely its soft curving outline merged into shadow and turf.  The third thud was a battered old drinking-cup—­dully silver, mysteriously Chinese.  The fourth thud was a big glass jar of frankly American beef.  Familiarly, reassuringly, its sleek sides glinted in the flickering flame.

“Supper,” announced little Eve Edgarton.

As tomboyishly as a miniature brigand she crawled forward again into the meager square of lantern-tinted earth and, yanking a revolver out of one boot-leg and a pair of scissors from the other, settled herself with unassailable girlishness to jab the delicate scissors-points into the stubborn tin top of the meat jar.

As though the tin had been his own flesh the act goaded Barton half upright into the light—­a brightly naked young Viking to the waist, a vaguely shadowed equestrian Fashion Plate to the feet.

“Well—­I certainly never saw anybody like you before!” he glowered at her.

With equal gravity but infinitely more deliberation little Eve Edgarton returned the stare.  “I never saw anybody like you before, either,” she said enigmatically.

Barton winced back into the darkness.  “Oh, I say,” he stammered.  “I wish I had a coat!  I feel like a—­like a—­”

“Why—­why?” droned little Eve Edgarton perplexedly.  Out from the yellow heart of the pansy-blackness her small, grave, gnomish face peered after him with pristine frankness.  “Why—­why—­I think you look—­nice,” said little Eve Edgarton.

With a really desperate effort Barton tried to clothe himself in facetiousness, if in nothing else.  “Oh, very well,” he grinned feebly.  “If you don’t mind—­there’s no special reason, I suppose, why I should.”

Vaguely, blurrishly, like a figure on the wrong side of a stained-glass window, he began to loom up again into the lantern light.  There was no embarrassment certainly about his hunger, nor any affectation at all connected with his thirst.  Chokingly from the battered silver cup he gulped down the scorching vodka.  Ravenously he attacked the salty meat, the sweet, cloying dates.