“I think my meaning is perfectly clear,” she returned with spirit. “Even at the station you made it quite evident that my appearance came upon you in the light of an unpleasant surprise. And—from what you said just now to Mr. Brennan—it is obvious you hope my visit will not be a long one.”
If she had anticipated spurring him into an impulsive disclaimer, she was disappointed.
“I am sorry I have failed so lamentably in my duties as host,” he said coldly.
The apology, uttered with such an entire lack of ardour, served to emphasise the offence for which it professed to ask pardon. Jean’s face whitened. She would hardly have felt more hurt and astonished if he had struck her.
“I—I——” she began. Then stopped, finding her voice unsteady.
But he had heard the break in the low, shaken tones, and in a moment his mood of intolerant anger vanished.
“Forgive me,” he said remorsefully—and there was genuine contrition in his voice now. “I’m a cross-grained fellow, Miss Peterson; you’ll find that out before you’ve been here many days. But never think that you are unwelcome at Staple.”
“Then why—I don’t understand you,” she stammered. She found his sudden changes of humour bewildering.
He smiled down at her, that rare, strangely sweet smile of his which when it came always seemed to transform his face, obliterating the harsh sternness of its lines.
“Perhaps I don’t quite understand, either,” he said gently. “Only I know it would have been better if you had never come to Staple.”