"I didn't arrange it," she remonstrated. "Come to consider, you're as much to blame as me."
He turned on her, white, his eyes furious.
"What are you old for!" he said, mad with his impotence. "Why can't you walk? Why can't you come with me to places?"
"At one time," she replied, "I could have run up that hill a good deal better than you."
"What's the good of that to me?" he cried, hitting his fist on the wall. Then he became plaintive. "It's too bad of you to be ill. Little, it is—"
"Ill!" she cried. "I'm a bit old, and you'll have to put up with it, that's all."
They were quiet. But it was as much as they could bear. They got jolly again over tea. As they sat by Brayford, watching the boats, he told her about Clara. His mother asked him innumerable questions.
"Then who does she live with?"
"With her mother, on Bluebell Hill."