“Well, it looks to me as if he means to make it impossible for me to marry, Mrs Desmond. I've thought of it a good deal.”
“And is it impossible?”
“No. I shall marry Lydia, even though I have to dig in the streets for her. It isn't that, however. There's some other reason back of his attitude, but for the life of me I can't get at it.”
“I wouldn't try to get at it, my dear,” she said. “Wait and see. Come, you must have your coffee. I am glad you came down early. The old gentlemen are at breakfast now. Come in.”
He followed her dejectedly, a droop to his shoulders.
Mr Dawes and Mr Riggs were seated at the table. Lydia, a trifle pale and distrait, was pouring their third cup of coffee. The old men showed no sign of their midnight experience. They were very wideawake, clear-eyed, and alert, as old men will be who do not count the years of life left in the span appointed for them.
“Good morning, Freddy,” said they, almost in one voice.
As he passed behind their chairs on his way to Lydia's side, he slapped each of them cordially on the back. They seemed to swell with relief and gratitude. He was not in the habit of slapping them on the back.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” said he. Then he lifted Lydia's slim fingers to his lips. “Good morning, dear.”
She squeezed his fingers tightly and smiled. A look of relief leaped into her eyes; she drew a long breath. She poured his coffee for him every morning. Her hand shook a little as she lifted the tiny cream-pitcher.