He straightened out his legs, puckered his forehead and pouted his thick lips.
“Have a strawberry,” he said suddenly, reaching with his hand for a plate lying amid a litter of books and papers, and stretching it out towards her. “Oh, there are ashes on it. I’m sorry! But the fruit’s all right. There! keep it by you—on the floor—anywhere—and help yourself!”
He once more subsided into his chair and frowned thoughtfully. Nance, with a smile of infinite relief—for had he not said that to leave Rodmoor was impossible?—kept the plate on her lap and began eating the fruit. She longed to blow the ashes away but fear of hurting his feelings restrained her. She brushed each strawberry surreptitiously with the tips of her fingers before lifting it to her mouth.
“You’re not cold, are you?” he said suddenly, “because I could light a fire.”
Nance looked at the tiny grate filled with a heap of bracken-leaves and wondered how this would be achieved.
“Oh, no!” she said, smiling again. “I’m perfectly warm.”
“Then, if you don’t mind,” he added, making the most alarming grimace, “pull your skirt down. I can see your ankles.”
Nance hurriedly drew up her feet and tucked them under her. “All right now?” she asked, with a faint flush.
“Sorry, my dear,” said Hamish Traherne, “but you must remember I’m a lonely monk and ankles as pretty as yours disturb my mind.” He glared at her so humorously and benevolently that Nance could not be angry with him. There was something so boyish in his candour that it would have seemed inhuman to take offence.