"Carley," he said, at last turning to her with a warm smile, "out here in
the West the cook usually yells, 'Come and get it.' Draw up your stool."
And presently Carley found herself seated across the crude table from
Glenn, with the background of chinked logs in her sight, and the smart of
wood smoke in her eyes. In years past she had sat with him in the soft,
subdued, gold-green shadows of the Astor, or in the sumptuous atmosphere of
the St. Regis. But this event was so different, so striking, that she felt
it would have limitless significance. For one thing, the look of Glenn!
When had he ever seemed like this, wonderfully happy to have her there,
consciously proud of this dinner he had prepared in half an hour, strangely
studying her as one on trial? This might have had its effect upon Carley's
reaction to the situation, making it sweet, trenchant with meaning, but she
was hungry enough and the dinner was good enough to make this hour
memorable on that score alone. She ate until she was actually ashamed of
herself. She laughed heartily, she talked, she made love to Glenn. Then
suddenly an idea flashed into her quick mind.
"Glenn, did this girl Flo teach you to cook?" she queried, sharply.
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