and remembered only that he was tired and hungry.

The little maid brought thin slices of bread and butter with the tea.
Mary Alice felt they must seem absurd to a hungry man. "I know what's
lots nicer with tea," she said.

"What?" he asked, interestedly.

"Toast and marmalade," she answered. "I'm going to get some." And she
went to the kitchen, cut a plateful of toasting slices and brought them
back with a long toasting fork and a jar of orange marmalade.

"At home," she said, "we often make the toast for supper at the
sitting-room fire, and it's _much_ nicer than 'gas range toast.'"

"I know it is," he said; "let's do it."

So they squatted on the rug in front of the open fire. Both wanted to
toast, and they took turns.

"I don't get to do anything like this very often--only when I come
here," he said, apologizing for accepting his turn when it came.

"Don't you live at home?" asked Mary Alice.

"Well, no," he answered, "I'd hardly call what I do 'living at home.'"

There was something about the way he said it that made Mary Alice feel
sorry for him; but she didn't like to ask any more questions.