He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘If that old Daisy hadn’t gone and catched cold,’ he said.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked abruptly.
‘That’s a hard one to answer,’ he said.
‘I wish I could help you.’ She found it difficult to speak without wounding his delicacy. ‘If you’re in want of money at any time . . .’ She felt it was her duty to give him anything she possessed. It was necessary for her own self-esteem that she should not feel under any obligation to him.
‘Money’s no use to me,’ he said, falling back on one of Mick Connor’s characteristic phrases.
‘But if ever you’re in need?’ she persisted. ‘I know that Mrs Malpas and her children are dependent on you.’
It was the second time that she had ever mentioned Mary’s name. She compelled herself to do so now because in this way she could make it quite clear that the incident of the other night was forgotten and that he could not build on it. She wanted to clear herself at any price. Even as she spoke the consciousness of her own motives filled her with shame. She held out her hand.
‘You won’t forget that, will you?’ she said.
‘No, Miss Marion, you’ve been a good friend to me.’ And he took her hand in his.
His unexpected use of the respectful prefix emboldened her and made her feel surer of herself. In a moment the indefiniteness of the situation had gone. They were back on their old footing of servant and mistress. Her heart gave a leap of thankfulness. She felt that she was saved. The man whose rough hand her fingers now touched for a moment was no longer the symbol of an ideal but simply a farm-labourer whom her father had dismissed. She withdrew her own hand hurriedly.