She nodded, and saw his lips curve with a mirthless smile.
“What did Carrington do?” The passion in his voice made an icy shiver run over her—she felt the terrible earnestness that had come over him, and a pulse of fear gripped her.
She had never felt more like crying than at this instant, and until this minute she had not known how deeply she had been affected by Carrington’s conduct, nor how tired she was, nor how she had yearned for the sympathy Taylor was giving her. But she felt that something in Taylor’s manner portended violence, and she did not want him to risk his life fighting Carrington—for her.
“You see,” she explained, “Mr. Carrington did not really do anything. He just came there, and was impertinent, and impudent, and insulting. And he told me that he had bought the house; that it didn’t belong to uncle—though I thought it did; and that the people of Dawes—and everywhere—would think—things—about me—as the people of Westwood had—thought. And I—I—why, I just couldn’t stay——”
“That’s enough, Miss Harlan. So Carrington didn’t do anything.” His voice was vibrant with some sternly repressed passion.
“So you walked all the way here, and you have had no breakfast,” he said, shortly. He turned toward the front door, his voice snapping like the report of a rifle:
“Bud!”
And, looking through the doorway, Miss Harlan saw Bud jump as though he had been shot. He appeared in the doorway, serious-faced and alert.
“Rustle some breakfast—quick! And hoe out that spare bedroom. Jump!”
Taylor understood perfectly what had happened, for he remembered what he had overheard between Carrington and Parsons on the train. To be sure, Miss Harlan knew nothing about the conversation, and so she mentally commended Taylor’s quickness of perception, and felt grateful to him because he had spared her the horror of explaining further.