"Mr. Bates! You're awfully angry with me, Mr. Bates, I'm afraid."
He got up out of his chair, in his petty vanity trying to stand before her as if he were a strong man. "Angry!" he echoed, for he did not know what he said.
"Yes, you're angry; I know by the way you looked at me," she complained sullenly. "You think I'm not fit to look at, or to speak to, and—"
They stood together in the common bar-room. Except for the gay array of bottles behind the bar the place was perfectly bare, and it was open on all sides. She did not look out of door or windows to see who might be staring at them, but he did. He had it so fixed in his faithful heart that he must not compromise her, that he was in a tremor lest she should betray herself. He leaned on the back of his chair, breathing hard, and striving to appear easy.
"No, but I'm thinking, Sissy—"
"You're dreadfully ill, Mr. Bates, I'm afraid."
"No, but I was thinking, Sissy, I must see ye again before I go. I've that to say to ye that must be said before I go home."
"Home!" She repeated the word like the word of a familiar language she had not heard for long. "Are you going home?"
"Where will ye see me?" he urged.
"Anywhere you like," she said listlessly, and then added with sudden determination, "I'll come."