"Eating!"

"Eating. I know a man of sensibility and refinement ought to shrink
from raiding his hostess's larder in the small hours, but hunger's
death to the finer feelings. It's the solar plexus punch which puts
one's better self down and out for the count of ten. I am a large and
healthy young man, and, believe me, I need this little snack. I need it
badly. May I cut you a slice of chicken?"

She could hardly bear to look at it, but pride gave her strength.

"No," she snapped.

"You're sure? Poor little thing; I know you're half starved."

Eve stamped.

"How dare you speak to me like that, Mr. Rayner?"

He drank bottled beer thoughtfully.

"What made you come down? I suppose you heard a noise and thought it
was burglars?" he said.

"Yes," said Eve, thankfully accepting the idea. At all costs she must
conceal the biscuit motive.

"That was very plucky of you. Won't you sit down?"