Val choked back the tears, and, without taking her face from the pillow, put out the burned hand gropingly until it touched his knee.
“Oh, you—you're good,” she said brokenly. “I used to think you were—horrid, and I'm a—ashamed. You're good, and I—”
“Well, I ain't going to be good much longer, if you don't get your head outa that pillow and drink this tea!” His tone was amused and half impatient. But his face—more particularly his eyes—told another story, which perhaps it was as well she did not read. “I'll be dropping the blamed stuff in another minute. My elbow's plumb getting a cramp in it,” he added complainingly.
Val made a sound half-way between a sob and a laugh, and sat up. With more haste than the occasion warranted, Kent put the tea and toast on the chair and started for the kitchen.
“I was bound you'd eat before I did,” he explained, “and I could stand a cup of coffee myself. And, say! If there's anything more you want, just holler, and I'll come on the long lope.”
Val took up the teaspoon, tasted the tea, and then regarded the cup doubtfully. She never drank sugar in her tea. She wondered how much of it he had put in. Her head ached frightfully, and she felt weak and utterly hopeless of ever feeling different.
“Everything all right?” came Kent's voice from the kitchen.
“Yes,” Val answered hastily, trying hard to speak with some life and cheer in her tone. “It's lovely—all of it.”
“Want more tea?” It sounded, out there, as though he was pushing back his chair to rise from the table.
“No, no, this is plenty.” Val glanced fearfully toward the kitchen door, lifted the teacup, and heroically drank every drop. It was, she considered, the least that she could do.