"Still got the hump," he assented, glad thus to mask his unhappiness.
"Breakfast and a strong cup of tea or two will fix that," she announced with confidence. "It's too bad there's no coffee."
"Yes," he said—"sorry!"
"No signs of a response to our C. Q. D.?"
"None as yet. Of course, it's early."
He lounged out of the kitchen with a tin bowl, a towel and a bar of yellow soap, and splashed conscientiously at the pump in the dooryard, taking more time for the job than was really necessary.
From her place by the stove, she watched him through a window, her eyes like a sunlit sea dappled with shadows of clouds speeding before the wind.
He lingered outside until she called him to breakfast.
His stout attempts to match her cheerfulness during the meal fell dismally short of conviction. After two or three false starts he gave it up and took refuge in his plea of indisposition. She humoured him with a covert understanding that surmised more in a second than he could have compressed into a ten-minute confession.
The meal over, he rose and sidled awkwardly toward the door.