"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going to make you a cup of hot tea before you go."
"I can't go," she whispered.
He was firm.
"I'm awfully sorry, Violet. But you've got to."
"But, Ranny—you couldn't turn a cat out on a night like this."
"Don't talk nonsense about turning out. You know you can't stay here. I can't think what on earth possessed you to come. You haven't told me yet."
She did not tell him now. She did not look at him. She sat bowed forward, her elbows on her knees, and her chin propped on her hands, while she cried, quietly, with slow tears that rolled down her bare, undefended face.
He made the tea and poured it out for her, and she took the cup from him and drank, without looking at him, without speaking. And still she cried quietly. Now and then a soft sob came from her in the pauses of her drinking.
Ransome sat on the table and delivered himself of what he had to say.