“Frank!” came up again. “I say!”
I remained silent.
“Have you got any string? Let a piece down.”
I knew what that meant. He had been to the kitchens and was going to send me up some supper. In other words, he was going to try and smooth over his despicable behaviour.
“A coward! A sneak! I hate him!” I muttered, as I stood there close to the window, as if unable to drag myself away, but listening greedily all the while, as Mercer went on in an excited whisper, insulting me, as I called it.
“Oh, I say, do speak, Frank,” he said. “I can’t stop long, and there’d be a row if any one knew I came to you. I am so sorry, Frank. I’ve been down to Polly Hopley’s, and bought a lot of her turnovers and some sweet tuck. I want to send it up to you. Haven’t you any string?”
I made no reply.
“Frank! I say: I know: tear up your handkerchiefs. I’ll give you some of mine to make up. Tie the bits together so as to make a long string, and let it down. Frank!”
“Go away, you miserable, cowardly sneak!” I cried passionately; “and never dare to speak to me again.”
He was silent for a few minutes, as if stunned by my fierce words. Then he began again.