"She passed you a cup of tea, didn't she?"

"Oh, surely. And a sandwich. And another. And a slice of layer cake, with a
fork. And another cup of tea. And a macaroon or two----"

"Am I a glutton?"

"Am I? Some of all that provender was for me, as I recall."

They were still side by side on the sofa. Both were cross--kneed, and the
tip of her russet boot almost grazed that of his Oxford tie. He did not
notice: he was already arranging the first paragraph of a letter to a
friend in Winnebago, Wisconsin. "Dear Arthur: I called,--as I said I was
going to. She is a scrapper. She goes at you hammer and tongs--pretending
to quarrel as a means of entertaining you..."

Medora Phillips removed her elbow from the back of the sofa, and began to
prod up her cushions. "How about your work?" she asked. "What are you
doing?"

He came back. "Oh, I'm boning. Some things still to make up. I'm digging in
the poetry of Gower--the 'moral Gower'."

"Well, I see no reason why poetry shouldn't be moral. Has he been
publishing anything lately that I ought to see?"

"Not--lately."

"I presume I can look into some of his older things."