“Sure, I had no opinion to offer,” said Antony. “It was not my affair at all. He talked, but I said little.”
“A good principle,” remarked Doctor Hilary approvingly, “and one I should advise you to adhere to. Your accent is all right, but your—your speech is a trifle fluent, if I may make the suggestion.”
Antony laughed pleasantly. He was now made sure of the fact of which he had been already tolerably certain, namely, that this big, rugged-faced man was fully aware of the conditions of the will, and his own identity.
“Sure, ’tis we Irish have the gift o’ the gab,” he returned apologetically, “but I’ll be remembering your advice.”
There was a little silence. It was broken by Antony.
“I was for making a cup of tea when you came up the path, sor. Will you be having one with me? It’ll not take beyont ten minutes or so to get a fire going, and the water boiling. That is, if you’ll be doing me the honour, sor,” he concluded gravely.
Doctor Hilary laughed outright.
He watched Antony disappear into the scullery, to reappear with a bundle of sticks and a log. He watched him kneeling by the fire, manipulating them deftly. He watched him fill a kettle with water, and put it on the fire, set cups on the table, then open his bag, and produce bread, butter, a packet of tea, and a lemon.
It was extraordinary what an alteration his sentiments had undergone since entering Copse Cottage. Every trace of prejudice had vanished. There was, in his mind, something pathetic in the skill, evidently born of long practice, with which this tall lean man made his preparations for the little meal.
From watching the man, Doctor Hilary turned his attention to the room. It was fairly comfortable, at all events, if not in the least luxurious. But the inevitable loneliness of the life that would be led within its walls, struck him with a curious forcefulness.