“Cut you? Why should I?” he said quickly.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know why. But you’ve been doing the next thing to it lately, haven’t you?”
Then, as he stared moodily down, at her without answering, she continued with the quaint, courageous candour which was a part of her:
“Will you tell me quite honestly, Mr. Coventry—would you rather that Robin hadn’t a sister living with him at the Cottage? Because, if so, I can easily go away again. I shouldn’t have any difficulty in finding a job, and Maria Coombe is quite capable of looking after Robin!”
While she was speaking a startled look of dismay overspread his face.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed in an aghast voice. “Have I been as rude as all that?”
“Not rude, exactly. Only when first I came you seemed quite pleased that I should be at the Cottage. But now—lately—” She broke off lamely. It was difficult to put the thing into words. There was nothing, actually, that he had done or left undone. It was a matter of atmosphere—an atmosphere of chilly indifference of which she was acutely conscious in his presence and which made her feel unwelcome.
But he refused to help her out. His eyes were bent on her face, and it seemed almost as though there were a certain eagerness behind their intent gaze.
“Yes,” he repeated. “And now—lately?”