She cried a little.
"I don't make your path rougher, Judith ?" I whispered.
She checked her tears and her eyes brightened wonderfully.
"You?
You do nothing but smooth it and level it." "Like a steam-roller," said I.
She laughed, sprang to her feet, and carried me off gaily to the kitchen to help her get the tea ready.

My assistance consisted in lighting the gas-stove beneath a waterless kettle.

After that I sprawled against the dresser and, with my heart in my mouth, watched her cut thin bread-and-butter in a woman's deliciously clumsy way.

Once, as the bright blade went perilously near her palm, I drew in my breath.
"A man would never dream of doing it like that!" I cried, in rebuke.
She calmly dropped the wafer on to the plate and handed me the knife and loaf.
"Do it your way," she said, with a smile of mock humility.
I did it my way, and cut my finger.
"The devil's in the knife!" I cried.

"But that's the right way." Judith said nothing, but bound up my wound, and, like the well-conducted person of the ballad, went on cutting bread-and-butter.