Leigh caught his breath, and his mouth fell open. He stared at William, but William was looking down at his plate. The only sign he gave of having heard his father’s remark was the deep red flush that went up to his hair. Leigh remained standing, though his mother clutched at his sleeve.
“Sit down, dear,” she whispered.
“Father,” he said in his high, boyish voice, his lips shaking, “she saved me. Where is she?”
“Sit down,” said Mr. Carter with an impatient gesture. “We’ll talk of that another time.”
He fixed an irate eye on his son, and the boy collapsed into his chair; but he scarcely tasted his food, nor did William eat more than a few mouthfuls. The two played with their forks and avoided looking at each other.
Leigh was panting with anger against William. He understood now what had happened. William was deserting Fanchon because of Leigh’s act. Instead of protecting her, he had ruined her. The boy could not eat. His food strangled him. Mrs. Carter hurried on the cherry tarts, and Miranda bore them in on a tray, her face beaming.
“Look, Leigh!” cried his mother. “Miranda made these for you.”
The boy raised his shy eyes to the cook’s face.
“You’re very good to me, Miranda,” he managed to say.
Miranda, with her quick racial sympathy, nearly dropped the tray.