“Laurence,” said Alys, faintly, “it was all my own fault. You said Gypsy was too fresh.”
“Hush, my darling. Never say any more about that part of it,” said Mr Cheviott, in tones that Mary could scarcely have believed were his.
“Kiss me, and say you forgive me, then, and I won’t,” entreated Alys.
He could not refuse, even though in stooping to kiss her he could not avoid his head’s brushing the sleeve of Mary’s dress. But motionless as she sat, he was conscious, through the thick grey tweed, of a sort of thrill of shrinking—an instinctive withdrawal from his slightest touch.
“How that girl must hate me,” he could not help thinking, even then.
“She has been so good and kind,” whispered Alys. “Laurence, you will thank her, won’t you?”