Then she caught his eyes on her and gave a faint laugh.
“Mr. Caryl,” she began. She could get no further; her voice broke; she put her trembling hand to her mouth and stared down at him.
He rose.
“Miss Delia,” he said gently, “what is it to you that the Macdonalds should take the oaths?”
The direct question threw her off her defenses; she gave him a terrified glance and sank into the chair, turning away her head.
“What is it to you?” he repeated softly.
Her voice came muffled over her shoulder: “Why, nothing—only—you see—I—”
He saw her shoulders heave, and bent over her. She was sobbing; he could see the tears glittering on her cheek; with a great effort she tried for control.
“I am tired—and excited, Mr. Caryl—don’t heed me.”
He stood still and silent, watching her, his soft mouth curved into a half-sad smile; the light from the flaring candle and his flickering shadow rose and fell over her, now obscuring, now revealing her bent head, and stooping shoulders.