She lifted the globe while he struck a match. It was his last, and it went out.
"Never mind," he said; "we'll get a light from the fire."
"Oh," she exclaimed, "but I'm giving you so much trouble; you had better let me call the girl!"
A dread of what might happen in this darkness was coming over her. "You had better let me call the girl," she repeated.
"Try if you can get a light with this first," he said—"try there, where it's red."
She bent over the grate, the twist of paper in one hand, and the other resting on the mantelpiece. He leant beside her, stirring the ashes with his foot.
It flashed back at her how Tony had stood stirring the ashes with his foot that night in Leicester, while he broke his news. A sickening anxiety swept through her to get away from Kincaid before he could have a chance to touch her. The paper charred and curled, without catching flame, and in her impatience she hated him for the delay. She hated herself for being here, lingering in the twilight with a man who dared to feel about her in the same way as Tony had once felt.
She rose.
"It's no use, doctor; Ellen will have to do it, after all."
"Don't go just yet," he said; "I want to speak to you, Miss Brettan."