Again Hilda gave him the alarmed quick glance; his eyes were humorously kind, and she smiled a slight little smile.
“Some tea!” Katherine cried; “my poor Hilda, I’m afraid it is hard-boiled by this time”—she laid her hand on the teapot—“and almost cold. Shall I heat some more water, dear?”
“Oh! don’t think of it, Katherine, it is almost dinner-time.”
“Must I be off?” asked Odd, laughing.
“How absurd; we don’t dine till eight,” Katherine said.
“It wasn’t a hint to me, then, Hilda?” Hilda looked helplessly distressed.
“A hint? Oh no, no. How could you think that?”
“I was only joking. I didn’t really believe you so anxious to get rid of an old friend.” Odd, with some determination, crossed the room and sat down beside her.
“I want to see a great deal of you if you will let me.”
“No one sees much of Hilda, not even her own mother,” said Mrs. Archinard from her sofa. “It is terrible indeed to feel oneself a cumberer of the earth, unable to suffice to oneself, far less to others. With my failing eyesight I simply cannot read by lamplight, and there are three or four hours at this season when I am absolutely without resources. Yet even those hours Hilda cannot give me.”