"An unexpected pleasure." He drawled with a side-long glance at the girl, her face rosy from the fire in its mass of waving dark-brown hair. "'Pon me word, you're growing up!" He stuck his glass into his eye and moved leisurely to take the head of the long table.
"My place," said Jill politely. "Roddy's away. Will you sit here?"
With an air of childish dignity she began to ladle out the soup.
Stephen laughed—a trifle sourly.
"Sorry to hear your mother's ill. What's the matter?"
"Overwork."
Their eyes met, and at last the man lowered his against his will.
"I suppose you know you're killing her? She can't go on at this rate! I should have thought"—Jill paused a moment—"you would have seen it for yourself."
Stephen laid his spoon down. His irritation at her words was increased by his first taste of the soup, a muddy, thin brown mixture.
"Is this the cook I found for you?" Purposely he ignored her speech and spoke in a languid voice, with studied indifference.