"No." ... She curled into a chair beside the narrow fireplace and held out chilled fingers to the blaze.
"I have been in the country all this week. I only came up this afternoon; the first train after I got Mother's letter. You wrote to Mother; not to me."
He ignored that.
"But, my dear—where are you dining?"
("Men," thought Ferlie. "Oh, Men!") She repudiated the thought of food with a gesture.
"Turn up the light, Cyprian. I want to look at you."
He obeyed and, kneeling, stirred the fire. She noticed the hair upon his temples, iron-grey; the little tired lines about his eyes and mouth; the quick nervousness of the sensitive hands. The East had taken its toll of the scholarly dreamer who had allowed his life to drift out on the tide rather than remain upon smooth shores to face a woman's "No."
With lightning rapidity the impression was registered on her heart that Cyprian wanted taking care of. She was not absolutely right. He was a giver himself. He wanted someone to take care of. Another flash, this time searching out the exact truth: Cyprian was not used to women.
"There has been no one since Muriel," decided Ferlie; and feared that name no more.
A gust of wind through the open door fluttered to her feet a sheet of close fine writing, the Greek e's betraying his classics and every letter standing out in equal value. It was the report on which he had been engaged that afternoon. She stooped and handed it back to him.