XVIII
BLIGHT
By the time he got back to the farm-house, the woman was up, dressed in the rent and stained but dry remnants of her own clothing (for all their defects, infinitely more becoming than the garments to which she had been obliged to resort the previous day) and busy preparing breakfast.
There was no question but that her rest had been sound and undisturbed. If her recuperative powers had won his envy before, now she was wholly marvellous in his eyes. Her radiant freshness dazzled, her elusive but absolute quality of charm bewitched—and her high spirits dismayed him. He entered her presence reluctantly, yielding alone to the spur of necessity. To keep out of her way was not only an impossibility, but would have served to rouse her suspicions; and she must not know: however difficult the task, he must dissemble, keep her in ignorance of his discovery. On that point he was resolved.
"Well, sir!" she called heartily over her shoulder. "And where, pray, have you been all this long time?"
"I went for a swim," he said evasively—"thought it might do me good."
"You're not feeling well?" She turned to look him over.
He avoided her eye. "I had a bad night—probably because I had too much sleep during the day. I got up feeling pretty rusty—the weight of my years. Cold water's ordinarily a specific for that sort of thing, but it didn't seem to work this time."
"Still got the hump, eh?"