"You? You do nothing but smooth it and level it."

"Like a steam-roller," said I.

She laughed, sprang to her feet, and carried me off gaily to the
kitchen to help her get the tea ready. My assistance consisted
in lighting the gas-stove beneath a waterless kettle. After that
I sprawled against the dresser and, with my heart in my mouth,
watched her cut thin bread-and-butter in a woman's deliciously
clumsy way. Once, as the bright blade went perilously near her
palm, I drew in my breath.

"A man would never dream of doing it like that!" I cried, in
rebuke.

She calmly dropped the wafer on to the plate and handed me the
knife and loaf.

"Do it your way," she said, with a smile of mock humility.

I did it my way, and cut my finger.

"The devil's in the knife!" I cried. "But that's the right way."

Judith said nothing, but bound up my wound, and, like the
well-conducted person of the ballad, went on cutting
bread-and-butter. Her smile, however, was provoking.

"And all this time," I said, half an hour later, "you haven't