"And him with that bad limp, too," she said to herself afterwards, "and them thick boots!"
"Breakfast," said Dick, in that low tone of his which never whispered. "Leave her door open, and our voices will make her feel safe in her sleep. Give me a towel and soap. I'll wash at the pump while you make tea."
When he had washed, eaten many eggs and drunk much tea, Mrs. Brundage thought her turn had come.
"Lady Adeline——" she began, but Dick turned on her so sudden a stare that she stopped short. And no less suddenly he remembered.
The woman's softening had made him almost willing to trust her with a condensed version of the facts. But her "Adeline" reminded him that he was already committed to a safer course.
"Adelina," he said, correcting her, "the Lady Adelina, not Adeline. Her mother, you see, Mrs. Brundage, was an Italian lady of high birth, and her exalted family were very particular about the end of the name."
To gain time he finished his tea, and lighted his pipe—his first smoke since he had left St. Albans.
"The father is an Englishman of title, who has long set his heart on a great marriage for his daughter. For months, nay, years, the high-spirited Lady Adelina has resisted the idea of yoking herself with a man she dislikes and for whom she has no respect."
"Poor young lady," sighed Mrs. Brundage. The familiar tale was alive with reality for her. "Now I'll lay the father's a baronet," she said.
"You have great insight, Mrs. Brundage. But it is worse than that: he is a marquis. Well, just before I first met her, Adelina, worn out by her father's alternate cajolery and brutality, had yielded, almost promising to do as he wished. It was during the war——"