“Mr. Geoffrey!” gasped Mrs. Trapes, gulping a mouthful of hot tea and blinking, “I never did!  Never in all my days would I allow myself such expressions—­Mr. Geoffrey, I’m ashamed at you!  An’ that reminds me—­it was chicken fricassee, wasn’t it?  For your supper, I mean?”

“I believe it was.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Trapes, rising, “I’ll go an’ buy it.  Was you wantin’ anything fetched, Hermy?”

“If you wouldn’t mind bringing a bunch of asparagus—­”

“Sparrergrass!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes in horror-struck tones, “why, it’s anywhere from thirty to sixty cents—­”

“But Arthur loves it, dear, and now that he’s working so hard—­”

“Arthur likes!” cried Mrs. Trapes indignantly.  “Mr. Geoffrey, it’s been Arthur ever since he was born, an’ her scrinchin’ an’ pinchin’ herself for the sake o’ that b’y.  O’ course he likes sparrergrass—­so do I—­but I make shift with pertatoes or cabbidge or carrots—­an’ so should he.  Come now, Hermy, you take a bunch o’ carrots instead; carrots is healthy an’ cheap!  Come now, is that sparrergrass to be carrots or not?”

“Ann, that asparagus is to be—­asparagus!”

“Such wicked extravagance, an’ all for that b’y.  Hermy, I’m surprised at ye!”

For a long moment after Mrs. Trapes had departed there was silence, while Ravenslee sat gazing where Hermione stood busy at her pastry again.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” said she at last, “I want to thank you for watching over my boy.  Arthur told me how good you were to him while I was away.  I want you to know how grateful I am—­”

“What beautiful hands you have, Hermione—­and I shall dream of your arms.”

“My arms?” she repeated, staring.

“They’re so—­smooth and white—­”

“Oh, that’s flour!” said she, bending over the table.

“And so—­round—­”

“Oh, Mr. Geoffrey!  Can’t you find something else to talk about?”

“Why, of course,” he answered, “there are your feet, so slender and shapely—­”

“In these frightful old shoes!” she added.

“Worn out mostly in other peoples’ service,” he nodded.  “God bless them!”

“They let the wet in horribly when it rains!” she sighed.

“So heaven send us dry weather!  Then there is your wonderful hair,” he continued, “so long and soft and—­”

“And all bunched up anyhow!” said she, touching the heavy, shining braids with tentative fingers.  “Please don’t say any more, Mr. Geoffrey, because I just know I look a sight—­I feel it!  And in this old gown too—­it’s the one I keep to scrub the floors in—­”

“Scrub the floors?” he repeated.

“Why, of course, floors must be scrubbed, and I’ve had plenty—­oh, plenty of experience—­now what are you thinking?”

“That a great many women might envy you that gown for the beauty that goes with it.  You are very beautiful, you know, Hermione.”

“And beauty in a woman is—­everything, isn’t it?” she said a little bitterly and with head suddenly averted.