Dexter gazed at her wildly. He knew that everything
must come out, but it was to have been in a few hours’ time, when he was far away, and deaf to the angry words and reproaches. To hear them now seemed more than he could bear. It could not be. Bob Dimsted must think and say what he liked, and be as angry and unforgiving as was possible. It could not be now. He must plead to the old housekeeper for pardon, and give up all idea of going away.
“Ah!” she said. “I see you are sorry for it, then.”
“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “So sorry, and—and—”
“You’ll take it this time, like a good boy!”
“Take it?”
“Yes, sir. Ah! you can’t deceive me. Last time I saw the empty glass I knew as well as could be that you hadn’t taken it, for the outside of the glass wasn’t sticky, and there were no marks of your mouth at the edge. I always put plenty of sugar in it for you, and that showed.”
“The camomile-tea!” thought Dexter, a dose of which the old lady expected him to take about once a week, and which never did him any harm, if it never did him any good.
“And you’ll take it to-night, sir, like a good boy!”