“What was she wantin’?”
“I dunno; she bought sixpence worth of writin’ paper,” replied Pedr, regarding Nelw with the air of a man who would like to say more. He was wondering how much she guessed of Catrin’s angling.
A shadow of annoyance passed over Nelw’s face.
“Dearie,” he continued, encouraged by her expression, “I can’t like her, whatever; she’s—she’s not nice.”
“Well, indeed, she’s smart,” answered Nelw gently.
“Tut! smart in those things she wears? She looks more than frowsy to me; an’—an’ she’s always coming into my shop.”
“Poor thing!” murmured Nelw, her face tender with pity.
Pedr observed her wonderingly. What prompted this compassion in Nelw? What made her understand weakness without being disgusted or repelled by its ugliness? Other women were not like her in this respect. And just behind this yielding lovableness that yearned over the mistakes of others, that reached out to Pedr as one athirst for the necessity of life, that clung to Pedr for strength, for protection, like a child afraid of the dark, what was this sense he had, of an obstinate reticence which seemed the very resiliency of her mysterious nature? Certainly she had had a bitter life. Then, like a viper into its nest, what Catrin Griffiths had said darted into Pedr’s mind. Was there something he did not know, that he ought to know? With the acuteness of the man who can detect the shadow of even a folded leaf, he searched Nelw’s face. Why when she needed him, when she was alone, when she was fretted by the difficulties of her solitary life, why did she always put off their marriage? Baffled, irritated, he spoke sharply.
“Poor thing, nothin’! It’s a pound head an’ a ha’penny tail with Catrin Griffiths.”