“There was nothing to tell, Uncle William.”
“There was the fact, wasn’t there?”
“Oh! yes, the fact.”
“Why did you do it?”
“That—is—a long story.” Lynda looked up, now, and smiled the rare smile that only the stricken man understood. Appeal, confusion, and detachment marked it. She longed, helplessly, for sympathy and understanding.
“Well, long stories are welcome enough here, child; especially after the dearth of them. Ring the bell; let’s have dinner. Pull down the shades and” (Truedale gave a wide gesture) “put the live stock out! An early meal, a long evening—what better could we add than a couple of long stories?”
In the doing of what Truedale commanded, Lynda found a certain relief. These visits were like grim plays, to be sure, but they were also sacred duties. This one, after the lapse of time filled with new and strange emotions, was a bit grimmer than usual, but it had the effect of a tonic upon the ragged nerves of the two actors.
The round table was set by the fire—it was the manservant who attended now; silver and glass and linen were perfect, and the simple fare carefully chosen and prepared.
Truedale was never so much at his ease as when he presided at these small dinners. He ate little; he chose the rarest bits for his guest; he talked lightly—sometimes delightfully. At such moments Lynda realized what he must have been before love and health failed him.
To-night—shut away from all else, the strain of the past weeks ignored, the long stories deliberately pushed aside—Truedale spoke of the books he had been reading; Lynda, of her work.