“To tell you the truth,” said Kathleen, “I'm hungry. I've had only a plate of soup, and that was—counterfeit. I think that mad woman intended it for the curate, for whom she had conceived a dislike.”
“Let's go up and sit in the dining-room, and I can talk while you eat.”
At that moment Mrs. Kent's voice sounded at the top of the stairs.
“Kathleen, dear, is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mother,” called Kathleen in the same silvery soprano that set Blair's heart dancing.
“Your father wants Mr. Blair to come up to the drawing-room and talk to him. He wants to tell him about the Battle of Wolverhampton.”
XIII
Blair, nervously playing with a key, stood by the fire in the drawing-room. Mrs. Kent had excused herself and gone upstairs. In the dining-room, across the hall, he could see Kathleen gleaning over the supper table while the maid cleared away the dishes. In spite of his peevishness, he smiled to see her pick up one of the stuffed eggs on a fork, taste it, and lay it down with a grimace. At the other end of the drawing-room Mr. Kent, leaning on his cane, was rummaging among some books.