“Will you tell me what time it is? My watch has stopped.”
“It’s half-past nine,” said Dosia.
“Half-past nine!” He looked at her in a sort of quick, horrified arraignment. “What do you mean?” His eye fell upon the clock, and conviction seemed to steal upon him against his will. “Heavens and earth, why wasn’t I called? On this morning of all others, when every moment’s of importance! I thought I asked particularly to be waked early.”
“I suppose they thought you were tired and needed the rest,” apologized Dosia.
“Needed the rest!” His tone was poignant; he looked outraged, but his anger was entirely impersonal—there was in it even a sort of boyish appeal to her, as if she must feel it, too.
“You had better sit down and have some breakfast.”
“Oh, breakfast!” His gesture deprecated her evident intention. “Please don’t. Thank you very much, but I don’t want any breakfast; I only want to get to town.”
“There isn’t any train for twenty-five minutes, so you might as well sit down and eat,” said Dosia firmly. “Come out to this little table on the piazza.” She led the way to the screened corner at the end, sweet with the honeysuckle that swung its long loops in the wind, and faced him sternly. “Do you take coffee?”
“Please don’t, please don’t cook me anything! I’d hate to trouble you.” He seemed so distressed that she relented a little.
“A glass of milk and some fruit, then; you’ll have to take that.”