He was sitting alone by the fire after dinner, trying to read a paper, when she came in. Her approach was so gentle that he was unaware of it till she stood beside him. He started to his feet, mumbling an apology for his bewilderment. He pulled up an arm-chair to the fire for her, wandered uneasily about the room for a minute or two, and would have left it, had she not called him back to her.
"Don't go, Mr. Hannay. I want to speak to you."
He turned, with an air of frustrated evasion, and remained, a supremely uncomfortable presence.
"Have you time?" she asked.
"Plenty. All my time is at your disposal."
"You have been very kind—"
"My dear Mrs. Majendie—"
"I want you to be kinder still. I want you to tell me the truth."
"The truth—" Hannay tried to tighten his loose face into an expression of judicial reserve.
"Yes, the truth. There's no kindness in keeping things from me."