The last glare of the sunset was on her guardian's face, which looked ash-coloured in the yellow radiance.
“Because I knew you were here,” he answered simply.
She had become conscious of the hair hanging loose across her breast, and it seemed as though she could not speak to him till she had set herself in order. She groped for her comb, and tried to fasten up the coil. Mr. Royall silently watched her.
“Charity,” he said, “he'll be here in a minute. Let me talk to you first.”
“You've got no right to talk to me. I can do what I please.”
“Yes. What is it you mean to do?”
“I needn't answer that, or anything else.”
He had glanced away, and stood looking curiously about the illuminated room. Purple asters and red maple-leaves filled the jar on the table; on a shelf against the wall stood a lamp, the kettle, a little pile of cups and saucers. The canvas chairs were grouped about the table.
“So this is where you meet,” he said.
His tone was quiet and controlled, and the fact disconcerted her. She had been ready to give him violence for violence, but this calm acceptance of things as they were left her without a weapon.