Mary’s eyes were red behind her spectacles. She had the sad, resigned indignation of a Cassandra misunderstood.
“Jeremy, aren’t you coming down to tea? We’re half finished.”
He rose to his feet. He knew that he must say something.
“I say, Mary,” he stammered, “it was most awfully decent of you to make that poetry up. I did like it.”
“Did you really?” she asked, gulping.
“Yes, I did.”
“Would you like a copy of it?”
“Most awfully.”
“I did make a copy of it. But I thought nobody cared—or wanted to hear. . . .” Fearful lest she should begin to cry again, he said hurriedly:
“Here’s Hamlet. He’s always been in the kitchen. He’s not going to be any longer.”