In his room, an hour later, he stood before the portrait of a woman, no
longer young, but beautiful with the beauty which never grows old. He
stood looking up at it, then spoke gently to it.
"She's just your sort, dear," he said, his keen eyes soft and bright.
"It's only friendship now, for she's not much more than a child, and I
wouldn't ask too much too soon. But some day--give me your blessing,
mother, for I've been lonely without you as long as I can bear it."
* * * * *
CHAPTER X
"The gentle art of cooking in a chafing-dish," discoursed Captain John
Rayburn, lightly stirring in a silver basin the ingredients of the cream
sauce he was making for the chopped chicken which stood at hand in a
bowl, "is one particularly adapted to the really intelligent masculine
mind. No noise, no fuss, no worry, no smoke, everything
systematic,"--with a practised hand he added the cream little by little
to the melted butter and flour--"business-like and practical. It is a
pleasure to contemplate the delicate growth of such a dish as this which
I am preparing.
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