She looked at Hilary, who sat by her in silence. If he had uttered a word of pity or condolence, she would have regretted the impulse that brought her to him. But he met her look gravely; then glanced at the kettle he had set on the stove, which was now beginning to steam.
"I shall make you some coffee—you look exhausted," he said.
"Oh, don't bother—I don't care for it," she protested dully.
"No bother—I often make it when I'm up late. I have everything here."
He fetched the coffee-pot, poured on the boiling water, set it back on the stove. A pleasant aroma filled the room. He brought a tray, with a cup, and sugar, and crackers, and Mary took it with a murmur. The coffee was good—she drank two cups of it and felt revived.
"Won't you have some?" she said, with a faint smile.
"I haven't another cup—but I'll get a glass."
They drank together. It was warm before the fire, sitting there, hearing the wind roar and the rain beat against the windows.
"I'd like to stay here," said Mary dreamily.