She began to pour out the tea. It made a pleasant little noise falling into the cup. The sun was wonderfully bright in the pretty room, almost Italian in its golden warmth. Lady Holme’s black Pomeranian, Pixie, stood on its hind legs to greet him. He came up to the sofa, still looking undecided, but with a wavering light of dawning satisfaction in his eyes.
“You behaved damned badly last night,” he growled.
He sat down beside his wife with a bump. She put up her hand to his rough, brown cheek.
“We both behaved atrociously,” she answered. “There’s your tea.”
She poured in the cream and buttered a thin piece of toast. Lord Holme sipped. As he put the cup down she held the piece of toast up to his mouth. He took a bite.
“And we both do the Christian act and forgive each other,” she added.
He leaned back. Sleep was flowing away from him, full consciousness of life and events returning to him.
“What made you speak to that feller?” he said.
“Drink your tea. I don’t know. He looked miserable at being avoided, and—”
“Miserable! He was drunk. He’s done for himself in London, and pretty near done for you too.”