He didn't like being called a lover. "She and I are engaged; I telegraphed yesterday—"
"Oh, but it was only a little joke, Tom, dear; you wouldn't be so unkind to Mr. Garratt."
"It's all nonsense about Mr. Garratt—" He stopped, for the breakfast was brought in. "Look here; I'd better pour out the coffee," he said; and when he had done so, and given her some toast and buttered a scone and helped himself to kidneys and bacon, he felt distinctly better. "Now, then," he said; "it's all nonsense about Mr. Garratt, and she and I are going to get married—soon as possible."
"No, no, Tom, dear, it's not nonsense," Lena said, with one of her usual wriggles. "She told me all about him, and I saw them meet in the wood, you know."
But he refused even to discuss it.
"That's all nonsense," he repeated, firmly. "What's the matter with Mrs. Lakeman?"
"It's only neuralgia," Lena said; "you know she has a bad, black day now and then. You don't mind being with me, Tom, dear? We always like being together?" She was beginning to feel that she couldn't hold him; that she had attempted more than she could carry out. She almost wished she had left him to Margaret; her power over him seemed gone, and she was handicapped by her mother's absence.
With a puzzled air he ate his breakfast. "What have you done to yourself?" he asked, when he had finished; "have you caught a cold, or overtired yourself, or just given in and taken to a sofa for no particular reason?"
"I'm not strong," she said, looking up at him; "and I felt as if I couldn't bear the waiting. We expected you every day; why didn't you come?"
"I was with Margaret," he answered, at which Lena turned and buried her face in the cushions and sobbed softly to herself.