Mr Cheviott gave a slight sigh. Mary’s quick conscience pricked her.
“I should not have said that,” she thought. “Poor man, it would be dreadful for him just now, when she is lying ill, to think he has not made her life as happy as possible.”
She leaned her head on her hand and tried to think of some safe topic of conversation. These enforced tête-à-têtes she felt to be far the most trying part of her life at the farm. Mr Cheviott, looking up, observed her attitude.
“You are very tired, I fear, Miss Western,” he said, with the unconstrained kindliness in his voice which so softened and mellowed its tones.
Mary roused herself at once.
“Oh, no,” she said, “I am really not very tired. I am waiting rather anxiously for Mr Brandreth. I thought he would have been here before this. I must get something to do,” she went on, looking round. “I wish I had asked Lilias to send a few books.”
“Please don’t get anything to do,” said Mr Cheviott, eagerly. “You don’t know what a satisfaction it is to me to see you resting, and how glad I should be to do anything for you. Would you like—might I,” he went on, with a sort of timidity which made Mary smile inwardly at the idea of the unapproachable Mr Cheviott feeling any want of assurance in addressing her! “might I read aloud to you? I sent home for some books to-day. Alys is rather fond of my reading aloud,” he added, with a smile.
“I should like it very much indeed, thank you,” said Mary. “And if—just supposing the sound of your voice sent me sleep, you would not be very much offended, would you?”
Mr Cheviott laughed—he was already looking over some magazines which Mary had not before observed on the dresser.
“What will you have?” he said. “Poetry, science, fiction? Stay, here is a good review of H.’s last novel that I wanted to see. The German author, you know. Have you read it?”