"No," Roger snapped, annoyed at this assumption of social manner in the stark, unfriendly room, with its stained walls and broken floor. "No. I didn't bring a gun. Besides, it's not duck season yet. I never heard of any other game on the marshes, did you?"
"No. I don't think I have." Anne flushed.
Her embarrassment at discovery did not soften Roger; he had been too hurt by her greeting.
"No. I have no excuse except one you may think presumptuous. I heard, accidentally, of a place I thought might suit you. But you'll have to let them know by Tuesday, to-morrow if possible. It's with Wilmot & Brown—twenty-five a week."
Anne tried to look as if she were seriously considering, but she had scarcely heard. She had not thought of this and now she saw so clearly it could have been the only reason for his coming. He had a deep, human kindliness for all misfortune, and she had been unfortunate. She, a working girl, had given up her place. He had found her another almost instantly.
"Thank you. It was very kind of you. But I'm not sure I'm going back to town directly. My cousins," the word contained the broken floor, the scratched wall, the worn furniture, "want me to stay for the rest of the month. I may do it."
Through the window she saw Janet wheeling a refuse-filled barrow from the chicken run. Bent against the wind, she moved, almost doubled above the vile load. Bab followed with a pitchfork. They disappeared behind the barn. Anne looked straight at Roger:
"There are no men on the place and the school vacations are the only time my Cousin Janet gets enough leisure to do anything. We have been talking about fixing the fences and mending this floor. If you'd come to-morrow instead of to-day you'd have found us calcimining."
Roger's eyes came back to Anne, flushed, defiant, so unmistakably proud and hurt.
"I didn't mean it intrusively," he said quietly. "I just couldn't stand the thought of you taking any old thing—another rotter like Lowell, perhaps—where anything but a machine is wasted. Please believe——"