"I'm just putting the bed to rights," she answered, and almost with a single movement she slid back into the bed. "What have you got there?"
"I thought I'd ask for some tea for you," he said. "Nearly the whole blessed household wanted to come and see you, but I wouldn't have it."
She could not say: "It's very nice of you." But she said, simply to please him: "I should like some tea."
He put the tray on the dressing-table; then lit three candles, two on the dressing-table and one on the night-table, and brought the tray to the night-table.
He himself poured out the tea, and offered the cup. She raised herself on an elbow.
"Did you recognise him?" she muttered suddenly, after she had blown on the tea to cool it.
Under ordinary conditions Edwin would have replied to such an unprepared question with another, petulant and impatient: "Recognise who?" pretending that he did not understand the allusion. But now he made no pretences.
"Not quite," he said. "But I knew at once. I could see which of them it must be."
The subject at last opened between them, Hilda felt an extraordinary solace and relief. He stood by the bedside, in black, with a great breastplate of white, his hair rough, his hands in his pockets. She thought he had a fine face; she thought of him as, at such a time, her superior; she wanted powerfully to adopt his attitude, to believe in everything he said. They were talking together in safety, quietly, gravely, amicably, withdrawn and safe in the strange house--he benevolent and assuaging and comprehending, she desiring the balm which he could give. It seemed to her that they had never talked to each other in such tones.
"Isn't it awful--awful?" she exclaimed.