"Oh, only to paste in some of my scraps. I've got a nice lot of paste. Will you do it now?"
He rushed away for the scrap-book, his mind at once diverted from the subject under discussion. Lettice longed for a quiet half-hour; yet perhaps employment was better for her than solitary cogitation, and Keith's chatter left no loophole for steady thought. Trembling lessened under the need for careful work, but severe headache came on instead, and at length she was obliged to lay down the paste-brush.
"Keith, I don't think I can do any more till I have had some tea. I wonder if you could get me a cup?"
"I'll ask Mamsie. And some cake?"
"No, only tea. And then I needn't leave this to go downstairs."
Keith ran willingly enough, but he returned with a crestfallen air. "She says it's nonsense, and I shall smash the china; and if you want any tea, you are to get it yourself."
"Very well. You can finish sorting these pictures while I am away."
Lettice made her way slowly, not to the drawing room direct, but to her own room first. She hardly knew how to meet Theodosia; to meet her injurer, and make no sign. Beneath an outer strained calm lay a seething turmoil of indignation. If that should break bounds, what might she not say or do, in this hour of bitter resentment? Lettice dropped on her knees by the bedside, with face hidden, crying out voicelessly for the help needed; and ten minutes of wrestling went by before she dared to venture downstairs.
"You seem fond of cold tea," Theodosia observed, carelessly handing her a cup.
Lettice made no answer in words. Their eyes met: Theodosia's handsome and repellent, albeit capable of pleasant regards when their owner chose; Lettice's constrained and inwardly dark with some new meaning, which Theodosia could not read. The same was inscribed also, though no more legibly, in the firm set of the white lips. Theodosia tossed her head; and Lettice went to a chair, again trembling, so that she had to put down her cup.