Between the two of them, since her return, there had been much of good fellowship, nothing of sentiment. He wanted her near, but he did not put a hand on her. In the strain of those few days the strange, grey dawn seemed to have faded into its own mists. Only once, when she had brought his breakfast tray and was arranging the dishes for him—against his protest, for he disliked being waited on—he reached over and touched a plain band ring she wore. She coloured.
"My mother's," she said; "her wedding ring."
Their eyes met across the tray, but he only said, after a moment: "Eggs like a rock, of course! Couldn't we get 'em raw and boil them over here?"
It was that morning, also, that he suggested a thing which had been in his mind for some time.
"Wouldn't it be possible," he asked, "to bring your tray in here and to eat together? It would be more sociable."
She smiled.
"It isn't permitted."
"Do you think—would another box of orchids——"
She shook her head as she poured out his coffee. "I should probably be expelled."
He was greatly aggrieved.