“Come, honestly, what is your reason for taking his part through thick and thin like this? Come,” he repeated, getting for the moment no answer, “what is it?”
Freda hesitated, drying her eyes furtively.
“Don’t you see,” she said, tremulously, “that it is my only consolation now to think the very, very best of him?”
The man, instead of answering, turned from her abruptly, and signed to her with his hand to follow him. This she did; and they passed round one side of the court-yard under a gallery, supported by a colonnade, and entering the house, went through a wide, low hall, into an apartment to the right at the front of the building. It was a pretty room, with a low ceiling handsomely moulded, panelled walls, and an elaborately carved wooden mantelpiece, which had been a good deal knocked about. The room had been furnished with solid comfort, if without much regard to congruity, a generation or so back; and the mahogany arm-chairs having been since shrouded in voluminous chintz covers with a pattern of large flowers on a dark ground, the room looked warm and cheerful. Tea was laid on the table for two persons. Freda’s sharp eyes noted this circumstance at once. She turned round quickly.
“Who is this tea for?” she asked.
“Captain Mulgrave’s death was not discovered until it was ready.”
“But it was laid for two. Was it for you also?”
“Yes.”
Freda’s face fell.
“You think it was derogatory to his dignity to have his meals with me?”