“Why do you do that?” he said. “Are you afraid to tell me so?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t hate you.”
“Why not?” he said.
She hesitated momentarily. Then: “It may be because I don’t know you well enough,” she said.
There was something in his eyes that besought her. Again involuntarily she thought of a wounded animal. “Not well enough to hate me?” he said.
“Not well enough to judge,” she answered quietly.
She saw his throat move spasmodically. His eyes left hers. “I would rather be hated—than tolerated—by you,” he said, almost under his breath.
His hold upon her had slackened; she slipped her hand away. “Won’t you have your tea?” she said. “I am sure you will feel the better for it.”
He made an odd sound that might have been an effort at laughter, and stretched out his hand for the cup.
She stood beside him while he drank, and took it from him when he had finished. “Eat some toast while I pour you out some more!” she said.