She hesitated, and he pushed her gently away from him. Then she stooped, kissed his forehead, and with an imploring, yet still dignified, look into Ned’s reluctant eyes as she passed him, she slowly left the room.
“Now,” said Mitchell, in a louder, more assured tone, as if much relieved, “we’ve got an account to settle with you.”
“Well, sit down, and let us have it out.”
Meredith was not in the least discomposed. He took up the pen he had been using, wiped it carefully, and then crossing his legs and clasping his hands over them, assumed the attitude in which he was accustomed to give private advice or consolation to members of his flock.
“I’m afraid we are interrupting you,” said Ned, ironically; so he prepared to sit down, which Abel shyly refused to do.
“Not at all. I was writing my sermon for next Sunday, but as I suppose it lies with you whether I shall be allowed to preach it, I can’t complain of your visit as an interruption.”
“You take this business pretty coolly,” said Ned, losing patience.
Meredith looked at him with a sudden flash of fire in his blue eyes, a spark of the same fierce spirit which he had revealed to Ned on the night when he conquered and controlled the bloodhounds at the cottage.
“Do you suppose that I have kept my head for ten years to lose it now?”
Ned was taken back. There was a pause before he said, in almost a respectful voice—