“It is the concern of every honest man,” he interrupted. “You must please let me go!”
She was holding his arm, and she refused to withdraw her fingers. Then Mrs. Foulton intervened.
She had smoothed her hair and was carrying a tea-tray. They both looked at her as though fascinated.
“I hope I have not kept you waiting, madam,” she said quietly. “I had to send Ruth up for the cream. The boy’s at Loughborough market, and I’m a bit shorthanded.”
“I—oh! I’m sorry you bothered about the tea, Mrs. Foulton,” Wilhelmina said, with an effort. “But how good it looks! Come, Mr. Macheson! I don’t know whether you’ve had any lunch, but I haven’t. I’m perfectly ravenous.”
“I’ve some sandwiches in my pocket,” Macheson answered, moving slowly to the table, “but to tell you the truth, I’d forgotten them.”
She drew off her gloves and seated herself before the teapot. All the time her eyes were fixed upon Macheson. She was feverishly anxious to have him also seat himself, and he could scarcely look away from the woman who, with a face like a mask, was calmly arranging the things from the tray upon the table. When she left the room he drew a little breath.
“Do they feel—really, these people,” he asked, “or are they Stoics?”
“We feel through our nerves,” she answered, “and they haven’t many. Is that too much cream?—and pass the strawberry jam, please.”
He ate and drank mechanically. The charm of this simple meal alone with her was gone—it seemed to him that there was tragedy in the arrangement of the table. She talked to him lightly, and he answered—what he scarcely knew. Suddenly he interposed a question.