He set down the kettle and drew up the horse-hair chair with the wooden arms that she so well remembered.
“Sit down!” he said.
She obeyed him, finding no words.
He cut a slice from a loaf and began to toast it, Roger pressing closely against his gaitered legs.
Very suddenly his voice came back to her again, hollow, strained, oddly vibrant. “I should like you to know one thing. Though you have come back here against my will, you have—nothing to fear. I recognize it was—an act of—charity—and, so far as I am concerned, you are safe. I will never get in your way.”
“Thank you,” Frances said quietly. “I am not afraid of that.”
He made a jerky movement, but instantly checked himself, and turning the bread upon the fork, maintained his silence. She wondered what was passing behind that tensely restrained front, what torment was at work within him to produce the anguish of suffering which she sensed rather than saw. But he gave her no clue of any sort. He remained bent and silent till his task was finished.
Then he brought the toast and set it before her. “Can you pour out your own tea?” he said.
She looked up at him, gravely resolute. “Mr. Dermot, please join me!”
He made a sharp gesture that was more of protest than refusal. “Afraid I can’t stay. I’ve got to see Oliver.”