And his hunger returned.
Then Mila's voice sounded near him. She carried a basket and fairly ran
in her eagerness.
"Mr. Shannon, Mr. Shannon, good Prince Gerald--" he was amazed; where
could she have heard his Christian name?--"your breakfast. Wait--don't
swim the seas to New York for it. Here it is." She opened the basket and
handed him a jug of coffee and showed him the rolls inside. Without the
slightest embarrassment he thanked her and drank his coffee, walking; he
ate the bread, and felt, as he expressed it, like leading a forlorn
hope. They went on, the cutting sunshine and sparkling breeze alluring
them to vague distances. It was long after midday when they marched back
at a slower pace, Gerald swinging the basket like a light-hearted boy,
instead of the desperado he fancied himself.
Entering the house, Mila hunted up some cold meat, and with fresh tea
and stale bread they were contented. The formidable pyrotechnist did not
appear, and so the young people enjoyed the day in each other's company.
She conducted him like a river through the lands of sociology,
Dostoiewsky, and Chopin.
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