He rang the bell, and the servant brought in the tea-tray, with its little silver kettle, and placed it upon the small table near by.
The fire burned brightly, the kettle sang, the richly yet tastefully-furnished room was redolent of luxurious comfort, and poor Blair nestled into his chair, and thought of the "beastly" weather outside.
Violet stole a glance at him as she busied herself with her tea-making, and a sharp pang shot through her as she saw in the firelight the pale, haggard face, which she had last seen so bright and careless.
She was just about to say: "You have been very ill, haven't you?" but once again she remembered Austin Ambrose's caution, and, instead, she said:
"Where have you been, Blair?"
He started, and roused himself.
"Lately, do you mean?" he said, looking at the fire still. "I have been wandering about Somersetshire."
"Not shooting with a party?"
"No," he answered. "I have been alone. Just tramping round to—to kill time. I have been rather seedy, you know, but I am all right now," he added, quickly, as if he feared she might question him.
All right! Her heart ached, but she forced a smile.