She was ashamed of her foolishness the next moment, and raised her head quickly with a start and a hot, tingling blush, anxious to jump up and run away, though still not daring to move. She took out her pocket handkerchief very carefully, dabbed it against her wet eyes with much fierceness, and then gave another glance, not at all sentimental this time, at the face against her knee. Horror and confusion! Was he asleep at all? The expression of his face had quite changed, and there was a wretched tear—her tear!—on his forehead. What should she do? Remove that tear, certainly. For she felt that it would leave a huge stain, unmistakable as ink. Very nervously she attempted to dry it with her handkerchief; but the moment the cambric touched his face, Mr. Brander raised his head and prevented her.
“Don’t!” he said, huskily. “Why should you? What is there to be ashamed of in your kindness to me? Do I get too much from anybody?”
Olivia did not answer. She felt as if a new acquaintance had suddenly been sprung upon her. This mood was so different from any she had seen Mr. Brander in before. The half-cynical self-reliance, the bright, somewhat bitter humor had disappeared, and given place to a humility so touching, so gentle, that she felt constrained to remain where she was rather than risk hurting his feelings by rising abruptly. But she could not answer his questions, and so she sat silently, with her head bent down and turned a little away, while he resumed the position he had first taken, with his arms on his knees, looking into the fire. After a few moments, during which the girl had time to wonder that she felt, under these rather awkward circumstances, so much at her ease, she broke the silence, in a low, hesitating voice.
“Mr. Brander,” she began, “I should like to say something to you about—about this morning—about Mrs. Denison.”
Her painfully apologetic tone made him turn his head at once, with a smile.
“You may say something to me—in fact anything—upon any other subject than those two,” he answered, in his usual kindly tone. “Say something to me about this afternoon and about yourself. Let this morning—and Mrs. Denison—be buried. Mind, I say, this is no unchristian spirit.”
“You are very good,” said Olivia, glancing at him timidly and gratefully.
“Do you mean that?” he asked, inquisitively. “You have heard a good deal to the contrary, you know.”
“Well, but is all that true?” she burst out boldly. “Now, you have brought that question upon yourself before, and now you deliberately bring it upon yourself again. Why don’t you satisfy me by a straightforward answer? I do deserve it; for I always take your part, to other people and to myself too.”
“Do you?” he asked, so eagerly, with such a flash of pleasure over his face that Olivia felt abashed again. Then he paused, and the light had gone quite out of his face before he went on: “You won’t be satisfied then with the consciousness that you are a poor beggar’s solitary champion?”