"The sugar is there in that tin box by the model stand," she said, when he reappeared, "and the extra spoons are lying in a long box on Jack's big easel."
When Rowden, reluctantly relinquishing the zitherine, followed Clifford, bearing the cups and alcohol lamp, I raised my head and wiped the dust from my forehead. I believe I swore a little in French. Sweetheart looked startled. She knew more French than I supposed she did.
"What is it, Jack?"
"Mais—rien, ça m'embête—cette espèce de malle"
"Then why won't you let me help you, Jack? I can at least put in my gowns."
"But I must pack my colour box first, and the gun case, and the box of reels, and the pastel case, and our shooting boots, and the water-colour box, and the cartridge belt, and your golf shoes, and"
"O dear!" said Sweetheart with a shudder.
I stood up and scowled at the trunk.
"To look at you, Jack," murmured Sweetheart, "one might think you unhappy."
Unhappy! At the thought our eyes met across the table.
"Unhappy!" I whispered.
Then Clifford came stumbling in, wearing a pair of Joseph's sabots, and, imitating that faithful domestic in voice and manner, in-
