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He kissed her hair, the blonde hair which he had once thought ultra, but which he now knew to be “angel gold.”

“Jimmy, you’re—awfully satisfying,” she breathed happily.

They were still for enchanted seconds, then she tore herself free.

“The chops!” she cried.

“Confound the chops!” he exclaimed fervently.

He watched her in admiration as she turned the chops in the pan dexterously; and when she stooped to lower the flame beneath them he stooped swiftly and kissed the back of her neck.

The gas went out with a plop.

“Damn!” said the girl.

Harley hastened to re-kindle the flame.

“A good cook never swears, my dear,” he admonished her.

“But I’m not a good cook,” she defended herself. “You’ll find that out.”

“To tell you the truth, Pat, I am surprised to find that you can cook at all.”

“Indeed? I’m rather too decorative for the kitchen?”

He laughed softly and placed an arm about her shoulders.

“Well—you’re not the kitchen type, sweetheart. You know what I mean. It ought never to be necessary for you to have to cook. You were designed to grace dinners, not to cook ’em.”

“Exactly. Too decorative.”

“Not ‘too,’ Pat. I’ll never agree to that.”

“Good appetite cares little about decoration in any degree, Jimmy.”

Patricia reached for the dish of tomatoes upon the table.

“Fried tomatoes?” she asked.

“My favourite dish,” he replied; and became grave as an unwelcome vision of Grace slicing tomatoes into the pan obtruded itself.