He was too confused with the joy of her presence to decline.
"I have come on an errand which is not over pleasant," he remarked, watching her handling the cups, "and I am afraid that it is useless too."
"Does that mean that it is something you wish me to do but think I'm too hard-hearted or selfish to agree to?"
"It is not a question of willingness so much as of power. Mrs. Murphy is dying,—very likely by this time she is not living,—and she begs us to save her husband from being punished."
"But how could that be done?"
"I doubt if it could be done; but I promised her that I would speak to you. I suppose that if we did not give evidence there would not be much that could be told; but I hardly think that we have the right not to."
Mrs. Fenton thoughtfully regarded the fire a moment; then seemed to be recalled to the present by the active boiling of the little silver teakettle.
"I'm afraid women would drive justice out of the world if they had their way," she said with a smile.
He smiled in reply, full of delight in her mere presence. They talked the matter over, arriving at some sort of a compromise between their sympathy for the dying woman and their feeling that a man like Murphy should be dealt with by the law. They came for the moment to seem to be on the old footing of simple friendliness, while she made the tea and they discussed the situation.
"One lump or two?" Mrs. Fenton asked, pausing with tongs suspended over the sugar.