Boswell liked the attempt and ready willingness; they showed character.
"Now that that is over," he said in his strange, fine voice, "we may sit down and be friends. May we not?"
"I will make fresh tea for you—please let me!" for Boswell was waving aside the suggestion.
"Very well! Weak—just flavoured water. Now, then!"
The sidling form edged to the deep chair beside the hearth and scrambled up, using both hands as a child does. Priscilla kept her eyes upon her task and struggled for composure.
"I—I suppose Max—I mean Farwell—did not describe me?"
"No, sir."
"It was mistaken kindness. My friends have a habit of doing that. They think to spare me; it only makes it harder. Try to forget, as soon as you can, my ugly shell; I am commonplace beneath."
The pathos of this almost brought tears to Priscilla Glenn's eyes. Her warm, sympathetic nature responded generously.
"I—I am very sorry I gave you pain, sir. Forgive me!"