He took no notice of the chair, and stood facing her at the end of the table, leaning on it with both hands, their thin knuckles white with his heavy pressure.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Have you had lunch?’
‘No.’
‘No.’
There was nothing for it, Catherine knew, but to face whatever music Stephen should make, but she did think he might have said ‘No, thank you.’ Still, her position was very weak, so she accepted his monosyllables without comment. Besides—poor Stephen—he did look wretchedly upset; he must have had a dreadful night.
She was very sorry for him, and began to tell him what had happened, how the petrol had run out just when they were in that bare stretch of country between Salisbury and Andover——
Stephen raised his hand. ‘Spare me all this,’ he said. ‘Spare me and yourself.’