"There's always something one could do without," observed Ashley Mead.
"I like you in that coat. Oh, well, I like you in any coat. But I never saw you ready for work before. Ashley, who is Metcalfe Brown? And how I wish he'd sit still!"
"He's a clerk," said Ashley; his smile persisted, but his brows were knit in a humorous puzzle.
A pause followed. Ora looked at him, smiled, looked away, looked at him again. Ashley said nothing.
"You might ask me something," she murmured reproachfully. He shook his head. She rose and came behind him; laying a hand on his shoulder she looked round in his face; mirth and appeal mingled as of old in the depths of her eyes. "Am I very dreadful?" she whispered. "Are you quite tired of me, Ashley?"
There was a sound from above as though a man had thrown himself heavily on a sofa or a bed.
"Bother Metcalfe Brown," whispered Ora. "Ashley, I couldn't help it. I was afraid."
"You needn't have been afraid with me," he said in a low voice.
"But—but you wouldn't have stayed. I was so frightened. You know what I told you; I remembered it all. He'd had too much to drink; he wasn't generally cruel, but that made him. Ashley dear, say you forgive me?"
The dim sound of a quavering voice reached them through the ceiling. For an instant Ora raised her head, then she bent down again to Ashley.