"I never forget," said Awdrey. He spoke abruptly; he had turned his back on his wife; a picture which was hanging slightly awry needed straightening; he went up to it. Ann came in at the open window.
"What possesses all you women to be out at cockcrow in this fashion?" said her brother, submitting to her embrace rather than returning it.
Ann laughed gleefully.
"It's close on nine o'clock," she replied; "here are some daffodils for you, Margaret"—she laid a great bunch by Mrs. Awdrey's plate. "You have quite forgotten your country manners, Robert; in the old days breakfast was long over at nine o'clock."
"Well, let us come to table now," said the Squire.
The rest of the party trooped in by degrees. Mrs. Everett was the last to appear. Awdrey pulled out a chair near himself; she dropped into it. He began to attend to her wants; then entered into conversation with her. He talked well, like the man of keen intelligence and education he really was. As he spoke the widow kept watching him with her bright, restless eyes. He never avoided her glance. His own eyes, steady and calm in their expression, met hers constantly. Toward the end of breakfast the two pairs of eyes seemed to challenge each other. Mrs. Everett's grew fuller than ever of puzzled inquiry; Awdrey's of a queer defiance. In the end she looked away with a sigh. He was stronger than she was; her spirit recognized this fact; it also began to be dimly aware of the truth that he was her enemy.
The Squire rose suddenly from his seat and addressed his wife.
"I've just seen Griffiths pass the window," he said. "I'm going out now; don't expect me to lunch."