Upstairs in the bedroom overhead, Steve and his mother moved heavily. There was a sound of drawers opening and shutting, then a grating sound. Something was being dragged from under the bed. Maggie knew that they were packing Majendie's portmanteau with the things he had left behind him.
They stood together by the hearth, where the fire kindled feebly. He thrust out his foot, and struck the woodpile; it fell and put out the flame that was struggling to be born.
"I'm sorry, Maggie," he said.
Maggie stooped and built up the pile again and kindled it. She knelt there, patient and humble, waiting for the fire to burn.
He did not know whether he was going to have trouble with her. He was afraid of her tenderness.
"Why didn't you come last night?" she said.
"I couldn't."
She looked at him with eyes that said, "That is not true."
"You couldn't?"
"I couldn't."