He stretched upwards and got down two or three. Mary, to hide her discomfort, was glad to help in the “dishing up” that ensued, till between them a very appetising sort of picnic supper was spread out on the table, and Mary, to tell the truth, being really hungry, did not refuse her host’s invitation to fall to. He was hungry too, notwithstanding his anxiety, and for a few minutes the repast went on in silence. Then the ludicrousness of the scene struck Mary anew, more forcibly than ever. She could not restrain a smile, and Mr Cheviott, looking up at the moment, caught sight of it. He smiled too.
“What is it that amuses you so, Miss Western?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Everything I think,” she replied.
Mr Cheviott glanced round—then his eyes returned to the table.
“Mrs Golding has certainly sent us provisions enough to stand a siege,” he said.
“I suppose she thinks you and Miss Cheviott would starve outright without her to take care of you,” said Mary.
“Just exactly what she does think,” he replied. “How do you—have you ever seen her?”
Mary wished her remark had remained unspoken, but judged it best to put a good face upon it. “Yes,” she said, bravely, her traitorous cheeks flaming again, nevertheless; “I saw her that—that ill-starred day when I got locked up in your haunted room.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Mr Cheviott. Then he hesitated. “Why do you call it ‘that ill-starred day’?” he asked, with some curiosity. “It did not do you any harm, did it? You were not so very frightened, surely?”
“I was very frightened—ridiculously frightened,” replied Mary; “but I suppose my nerves, though I hate to speak or think of such things as nerves, were hardly in their usual order that day. I had had a good deal to try me. Yes, I was very frightened. When I heard your step approaching the door, I was nearly beside myself with fright.” Here a half-smothered exclamation from Mr Cheviott, which, had it been from any one else, would have sounded to Mary marvellously like “poor child!” caused her to hesitate. She looked up at him—no, he was calmly filling his wine glass—she must have been mistaken. Still she hesitated, but only for a moment. Could she ever hope for such an opportunity again? Be brave, Mary, and make the most of it! “It was not on account of my fright that I so dislike the remembrance of that day,” she went on, hurriedly. “It was because for the first—no, for the second time in my life, I felt that I had put myself into an utterly false, a most lowering position.”