"Sugar?" asked Cary suggestively, a little later of Trevelyan.
"No," said Trevelyan, moodily, "No sugar and no tea!"
Cary shrugged her shoulders.
"You're impossible, to-day," she said, "Bread and butter, John?"
After awhile Stewart prepared to leave. Trevelyan still leaned against the mantel, his face turned to the fire. He knew Stewart was going, but he did not move. From the doorway he could hear Stewart's voice calling out good-bye.
"Good-bye," he called back, shortly.
Cary returned to the tea table, paused and looked at Trevelyan's back in an uncertain way. Trevelyan was acutely conscious of her nearness. She sat down, resting her intertwined fingers on the edge of the table and looked down at them.
"Well?"
Trevelyan turned at the sound of her quiet voice and faced her, still resting one elbow on the mantel.
"Well!" he repeated, a touch of sarcasm in his voice, "It isn't 'well' at all! It's as confoundedly bad as it can be! Here you're going to leave London day after to-morrow, to be gone—"