"How pleasant those oysters smell," said he. "Fleda, they remind me so of the time when you and I used to roast oysters in Mrs. Renney's room for lunch--do you recollect?--and sometimes in the evening when everybody was gone out, you know; and what an airing we used to have to give the dining-room afterwards. How we used to enjoy them, Fleda--you and I all alone."
"Yes," said Fleda in a tone of doubtful enjoyment. She was shielding her face with a paper and making self-sacrificing efforts to persuade a large oyster-shell to stand so on the coals as to keep the juice.
"Don't!" said Hugh;--"I would rather the oysters should burn than you. Mr. Carleton wouldn't thank me for letting you do so."
"Never mind!" said Fleda arranging the oysters to her satisfaction,--"he isn't here to see. Now Hugh, my dear--these are ready as soon as I am."
"I am ready," said Hugh. "How long it is since we had a roast oyster, Fleda!"
"They look good, don't they?"
A little stand was brought up between them with the bread and butter and the cups; and Fleda opened oysters and prepared tea for Hugh, with her nicest, gentlest, busiest of hands; making every bit to be twice as sweet, for her sympathizing eyes and loving smile and pleasant word commenting. She shared the meal with him, but her own part was as slender as his and much less thought of. His enjoyment was what she enjoyed, though it was with a sad twinge of alloy which changed her face whenever it was where he could not see it; when turned upon him it was only bright and affectionate, and sometimes a little too tender; but Fleda was too good a nurse to let that often appear.
"Mr. Carleton did not bargain for your opening his oysters, Fleda. How kind it was of him to send them."
"Yes."
"How long will he be gone, Fleda?"