“Gilian! Gilian!” cried Miss Mary up the stair.
He went down rosy red, feeling some unrest to meet a woman so soon after the revelation of a woman’s perfidy, so soon indeed after a love-tale told among men. The parlour, as he passed its slightly open door, was still; its candles guttered on the table. The fire was down to the ash. He knew, without seeing it, that the old men were seated musing as always, ancient and moribund.
Miss Mary gave him his supper. For a time she bustled round him, with all her vexation gone, saying nothing of his sederunt with her brothers. Peggy was at the well, spilling stoup after stoup to make her evening gossip the longer, and the great flagged kitchen was theirs alone.
“What—what was the Cornal saying to you?” at last she queried, busying herself as she spoke with some uncalled-for kitchen office to show the indifference of her question.
“Oh, he was not angry,” said Gilian, thinking that might satisfy.
“I did not think he would be,” she said. Then in a little again, reluctantly: “But what was he talking about?”
The boy fobbed it off again. “Oh, just about—about—a story about a woman in Little Elrig.”
“Did you understand?” she said, stopping her fictitious task and gasping, at the same time scrutinising him closely.
“Oh, yes—no, not very well,” he stammered, making a great work with his plate and spoon.
“Do not tell me that,” she said, coming over courageously and laying her hand upon his shoulder. “I know you understand every word of the story, if it is the story I mean.”