“Hurt me? No, why should you?” and her eyes met his with innocent surprise.
“Why should I, indeed! I should have been very sorry if you had gone, because I wanted to thank you for your kindness last night.”
“You have not to thank me,” she said, slowly.
“Yes,” he assented, quietly. “But for you——” then he stopped, remembering that it was scarcely correct to complain of her father’s inhospitality; “I behaved very badly. I always do,” he added—for the first time in his life with regret.
“Do you?” she said, doubtfully. “You were wet and tired last night, and—and you must not think ill of my father; he——”
“Don’t say another word. I was treated better than I deserved.”
“Why did you go without breakfast this morning?” she said, suddenly.
“I brought it with me,” he replied. “You forgot the loaf!” and he smiled.
“Dry bread!” she said, pityingly. “I am so sorry. If I had but known, I would have brought you some milk.”
“Oh, I have done very well,” he said, his curt way softened and toned down.