Chatterton now looked up from his book, and said,—
'You're welcome, or rather the cat is welcome.'
He had an hour allowed for his dinner, and was not due at the office again till one o'clock, when Mr Lambert left it to return to Dowry Square for his midday repast at half-past one.
Chatterton rose as he spoke, and sat down on a stool by the fire, his book still in his hand.
But he was not reading now, he was watching the lithe, graceful figure at the side-table.
Bryda had rolled up her short sleeves above the elbow, and her pretty rounded arms were seen to advantage as she mixed the flour and kneaded it, and then passed the rolling pin lightly over it.
She was conscious of Chatterton's presence, but her back was turned to him.
Presently she turned her head, and saw a pair of extraordinary eyes fixed on her. It was not an impertinent gaze like that of Squire Bayfield's, it was simply one of almost wistful earnestness.
'I am wondering, miss,' he began, 'what made you come to this hole?'
'I came because I am poor, and wish to help them at home.'