“I beg your pardon,” he said. “You meant to be kind, I’m sure, but the girl was rude, and I lost my temper. I ask your forgiveness.”
There were both pathetic and comic elements in the little scene; the meek Miss Charlotte stood trembling as if she had seen a ghost, gazing up at the tall Norseman who, in the hurry of the moment, had forgotten to remove the wet towel which, in common with most night-workers, he was in the habit of tying round his forehead.
Miss Charlotte stooped to pick up the jug.
“I am so sorry the girl was rude,” she said. “I wish I had brought it myself. You see, it was in this way; we all thought you looking so poorly, and we were having the beef for supper and we thought perhaps you might fancy some, and—and—”
“It was very good of you,” he said, touched, in spite of himself, by the kindness. “I regret what I said, but you must make allowance for a bad-tempered man with a splitting headache.”
“Is that the reason you tie it up?” asked Miss Charlotte.
He laughed and pulled off the towel, passing his hand over the mass of thick light hair which it had disordered.
“It keeps it cooler,” he said, “and I can get through more work.”
She glanced at the table, and saw that it was covered with papers and books.
“Are you wise to do so much work after being busy all day?” she said. “It seems to me that you are not looking well.”