No, there was no trace of anger in his face, neither did it betray any disappointment. Complacent, kindly, quizzical, his eyes met hers, and her heart gave a sudden, inexplicable bound.
"I—thought you would understand," she faltered. "We—we can't go on being engaged, can we?"
"No," said Tots with instant decision. "Shouldn't dream of borin' you to that extent. I've had enough of it myself as well." He uttered his pleasant, careless laugh. "I really don't wonder that my courtin' made you feel spiteful," he said. "I'm glad you're in favour of cuttin' it too."
Ruth stared at him blankly. Was he laughing at her? Was this to be her punishment?
He had straightened himself and was smiling down at her, his head within a foot of the bulging ceiling.
"Tell you what!" he suddenly said. "You eat some breakfast like a good girl, and then—I'll show you somethin'. Perhaps you'll let me join you?"
He did not wait for her consent, but sat down at the table. Ruth rose. He was putting her off, she felt, and she could not bear it. It had cost her more than he would ever realise to tell him the truth.
"I'm very sorry," she said unsteadily, "but—I don't think we quite understand each other yet. You know"—her voice failed suddenly, but she struggled to recover it, and succeeded—"I am not clever—like other women. I want plain speaking, not hints, I want to be told—in so many words—that you have set me free."
"Why should I tell you what isn't true?" said Tots. He stretched out his hand to her without rising. "I haven't set you free," he said, "and I'm not goin' to. Is that plain enough?"
He caught her hand with the words and drew her gently towards him. "I'll tell you what I am goin' to do," he said. "Come quite close. I want to whisper. You needn't be anxious. This chair is strong enough for two."