“Sorry I’m late, June,” he said awkwardly. “Here, give the tray to me; I’ll carry it in.”
June paused in the middle of the kitchen, flushing right up to the soft tendrils of hair that curled about her forehead. It was weeks since Dan had offered to relieve her of any of her housewifely tasks, although at one time he had been wont to hurry home, if he could manage to do so, on purpose to help her. Dozens of times they had laid the table together, punctuating the process with jokes and gay little bursts of laughter and an odd kiss or two thrown in to sweeten the work. But not lately—not since the visitors from London had come to Stockleigh Farm.
So June blushed and looked at her husband with eyes that were suddenly sweet and questioning. She knew, though she had not told him yet, that there was a reason now why he should try to save her when his greater strength could do so, and for a moment she wondered shyly if he had guessed.
“Why, Dan, Dan——” she stammered.
His face darkened. Her obvious surprise irritated him, pricking his conscience.
“It’s not very complimentary of you to look so taken aback when I offer to carry something for you,” he said. “Anyone might think I never did wait on my wife.”
The blood drained away from June’s face as suddenly as it had rushed there.
“Well, you don’t often, do you?” she returned shortly.
They re-entered the sitting-room together and Magda glanced up, smiling approval. She, too, was feeling somewhat conscience-stricken, and to see Dan helping his wife in this everyday, intimate sort of fashion seemed to minimise the significance of that little incident which had occurred by the river’s edge.
“What a nice, polite husband!” she commented gaily. “Mr. Storran, you really out to come up to London and give classes—‘Manners for Men,’ you know. Very few of them wait on their wives these days.”