“Did you try to put up a shelf?” Bill demanded. “Let’s have a look at it.”
Somehow she did not want Bill to come into their house. Not that she distrusted or disliked him, but he made her uneasy. Still, she could not very well refuse to let him come, so, with a good grace, she opened the door and they entered.
His blond head almost reached the ceiling; his great shoulders blocked all the sunshine from the window; he seemed completely to fill the little room. And she did not like him to be there.
The pretty little things she had set out on the table seemed like a child’s toys, the house was like a doll’s house, and she herself, with her ineffectual shelf, felt altogether too diminished. He had been staring at the fallen shelf and the coat hooks for some time with an odd expression—as if he felt sorry for her.
“Look here!” he said. “When you want anything of that sort done, tell me.”
“There’s no reason on earth why I should trouble you, Mr.—”
“Morgan,” said he. “It wouldn’t be a trouble. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Nothing!”
The earnestness with which he spoke confused her.
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she began, hastily. “But—”
“Look here!” he interrupted. “I’ve got to go away—and I don’t like to leave you like this. You can’t look after yourself any better than a baby.”