"I am foolish," she whispered, "just foolish. Don't take any notice!"
"Guess you're worn out," he said gently.
She shook her head, striving to master herself. "No, it's not that. It isn't anything. Please leave me alone for a little! I would rather."
He let her go, but he still remained beside her, looking down at her bent dark head. She leaned against the woodwork of the window, panting a little.
"I am better," she said uneasily, after a moment. "Please don't worry about me any more!"
"Who else should I worry about?" he said. "Do you suppose you aren't first with me every time?"
She quivered at the question, but she made no attempt to answer it.
He went on with a restraint that was somehow eloquent of vehemence suppressed. "I know well enough that you aren't happy with me. It's not in nature that you should be. Maybe it's my fault too; maybe it's not. I've been a damn' fool; I know that. But even so, you've no call to be afraid of me. You won't come up against me if you play a straight game."
He paused, and she saw his hands slowly clench. At the same moment she became aware of someone approaching, and turned her head to see Saltash coming towards her with a wine-glass in his hand.
"Oh, that's right; you're better," he said. "Here, Bolton! Make her drink this! It'll put a little life into her."