It was a disaster.

It might have worked with any other man, but Luke was constitutionally unable to sit quiet while somebody else cooked for him. With the best will in the world he couldn't refrain from suggesting that she turn the gas down and give this dish or that just a little more time.

In the end she stormed out. It was that or throw the lot over him.

Next day he was waiting for her with a posy and a heartfelt apology.

"I did you an injustice, didn't I?" he said humbly. "You weren't really going to do the creme caramel like that."

The quarrel that resulted from this remark took three days to heal. But nobody could quarrel for long with a man as sweet tempered as Luke. When he realized she wasn't going to make the first move he waited for her to leave the hotel and approached her with a finger pressed over his mouth.

"Good evening," she said frostily.

He made no sound, but pointed to the silencing finger with his other hand.

"I'm going home now," she declared.

But it was impossible. Whichever direction she took he was there before her, blocking off her exit, herding her toward the boarding house like a sheepdog with an awkward lamb.

"I don't know what you think you're playing at," she said exasperated.

From his pocket he took a small notebook on which he'd already written, "Every time I open my mouth you get mad at me."

"Oh, stop it!" she said, trying not to laugh, and completely failing.

"I'm sorry, Pippa," he said, meekly. "I just can't help it. Some people can't travel in a car as a passenger. They just have to drive. I can't be a passenger in a kitchen. I get hung up about how I'd do it and…" Catching her eye, he said hastily, "Let's drop the subject. Come home with me and I'll do the supper."

She slid her arms about him, looking up into his face. "Hope it chokes you," she said happily.