III
Stefan stayed at home for several days, sleeping long hours, and seemingly unusually subdued. He would lie reading on the sofa while Mary wrote, and often she turned from her manuscript to find him dozing. They took a few walks together, during which he rarely spoke, but seemed glad of her silent company. Once he called with her on Mrs. Farraday, and actually held an enormous skein of wool for the old lady while she, busily winding, told them anecdotes of her son James, and of her long dead husband. He made no effort to talk, seeming content to sit receptive under the soothing flow of her reminiscences.
“Thee is a good boy,” said the little lady, patting his hand kindly as the last shred of wool was wound.
“I'm afraid not, ma'am,” said he, dropping quaintly into the address of his childhood. “I'm just a rudderless boat staggering under topheavy sails.”
“Thee has a sure harbor, son,” she answered, turning her gentle eyes on Mary.
He seemed about to say more, but checked himself. Instead he rose and kissed the little lady's hand.
“You are one of those who never lose their harbor, Mrs. Farraday. We're all glad to lower sail in yours.”
On the way home Mary linked her arm in his.
“You were so sweet to her, dear,” she said.
“You're wondering why I can't always be like that, eh, Mary!”