“No,” Stacey said in a stifled voice, “I suppose not. It is not Phil, but— Please, sir!” he begged.
His father nodded. “Pretty cheeky of me, I admit, son,” he said gruffly. “Wouldn’t blame you if you’d grown angry, but you understand how I mean it—er—”
“That’s all right, dad. I know,” Stacey replied quickly.
They finished their supper in an awkward silence.
“Well,” said Mr. Carroll, rising, “I suppose I’d better get those presents of mine and open them. There’ll be a lot of notes to write in reply.”
Stacey followed him back to the littered drawing-room, mechanically almost, because he did not know what else to do. “Want any help, sir?” he asked.
“No, thanks,” said his father, his arms full of bundles. “I’ll be down again after a while.” And he went out.
Stacey, left alone, stared after him, then walked restlessly down the hall to the library. It was painful to him that his father should have divined his feelings. But this was not the worst. The worst was that, if his father had understood him, so, assuredly, had Catherine. This grieved Stacey deeply. He had been so careful, he thought; he had never meant to let her see what he felt for her. But she did know. Of course she knew! How stupid he had been! No wonder he found her changed! He could see it all now. His father, it seemed, believed that Catherine could care for Stacey as he for her; but Stacey knew better. She was shocked and saddened by her discovery, uncertain what to do—whether to go away or not, generously anxious not to give pain, all her peace of mind gone. Poor Catherine! Stacey was furious with himself. But this did no good—not the least bit. He shook off his anger impatiently. What was to be done about it? That was the point. How without putting things into words—which always made them worse—was he to let Catherine know that she could count on him, that he would be merely the friend she wanted him to be? He was puzzling over it when she entered the room.
She looked startled when she saw that he was there alone, and paused just inside the door as though half inclined to retreat. It hurt Stacey keenly that she should be afraid of him—and with reason. He had risen and stood facing her, but across the room from her.
“Won’t you—come in?” he asked. “Or would you rather go somewhere else—the dining-room? There’s luncheon ready for you in there.”