"What time is it?" he asked.
She looked at a wrist watch. "Four o'clock." She shivered.
"You've been here all this time without a fire. You're chilled through. Why didn't you go home? You should go now."
"I have been sitting here dozing," she said. "I wasn't aware of the cold until now. But there is wood and kindling in the kitchen, and I am going to make a fire. Aren't you hungry?"
"Starving," he said. "But there is nothing to eat in the house. It has been empty for months."
"There is tea," she said. "I saw some on a shelf. I'll make a cup of that. It will be something warm, refreshing."
MacRae listened to her at the kitchen stove. There was the clink of iron lids, the smell of wood smoke, the pleasant crackle of the fire. Presently she came in with two steaming cups.
"I have a faint recollection of talking wild and large a while ago," MacRae remarked. Indeed, it seemed hazy to him now. "Did I say anything nasty?"
"Yes," she replied frankly; "perhaps the sting of what you said lay in its being partly true. A half truth is sometimes a deadly weapon. I wonder if you do really hate us as much, as your manner implied—and why?"
"Us. Who?" MacRae asked.