Hurriedly she picked up her needle.
The man laughed happily at her confusion.
"What are you doing?
Is that my stocking ?" he demanded.
A look, half pain, half reproach, crossed her face.
"Why, Cyril, of course not! You--you told me not to, long ago.

You said my darns made--bunches.
"Ho! I meant I didn't want to _wear_ them," retorted the man, upon whom the tragic wretchedness of that half-sobbed "bunches" had been quite lost.

"I love to see you _mending_ them," he finished, with an approving glance at the pretty little picture of domesticity before him.
A peculiar expression came to Marie's eyes.
"Why, Cyril, you mean you _like_ to have me mend them just for--for the sake of seeing me do it, when you _know_ you won't ever wear them ?" "Sure!" nodded the man, imperturbably.

Then, with a sudden laugh, he asked: "I wonder now, does Billy love to mend socks ?" Marie smiled, but she sighed, too, and shook her head.
"I'm afraid not, Cyril." "Nor cook ?" Marie laughed outright this time.

The vaguely troubled look had fled from her eyes "Oh, Billy's helped me beat eggs and butter sometimes, but I never knew her to cook a thing or want to cook a thing, but once; then she spent nearly two weeks trying to learn to make puddings--for you." "For _me!_" Marie puckered her lips queerly.
"Well, I supposed they were for you at the time.