“If I’d have put my hands over your eyes, who would you have named?” asked a voice near her ear, a voice familiar, and fitted in that moment with old associations.
“I’d have had no trouble in guessing, Jerry, for I was expecting you,” she answered, scarcely turning her head, although his silent manner of approach had startled her.
“Agnes, I don’t believe you’ve got any more nerves than an Indian,” he said, dropping down beside her.
“If one wanted to make a facetious rejoinder, the opening is excellent,” she said, fighting back her nervousness with a smile. “Will you have some supper?”
“I’d like it, if you don’t mind.” 249
She busied herself with the stove, but he peremptorily took away from her the office of feeding the fire, and watched her as she put bacon on to fry.
“Agnes, you ought to have been frying bacon for me these four years past–figuratively, I mean,” he remarked, musingly.
“If you don’t mind, we’ll not go back to that,” she said.
Boyle made no mention of the purpose of his visit. He made his supper with ambassadorial avoidance of the subject which lay so uneasily on her mind. When he had finished, he drew out his tobacco-sack and rolled a cigarette, and, as it dangled from his lip by a shred of its wrapping, he turned to her.