Cleland nodded almost absently; his preoccupied gaze travelled over the disordered studio and concentrated scowlingly on the yellow cat. He kept twisting the head of his walking stick between his hands and staring at the animal in silence while Helen Davis watched him. Presently, and without any excuse, she walked slowly away and vanished into some inner room. When she returned, she had discarded her working smock, and her smooth hands were slightly rosy from a recent toilet.
"I'm going to give you some tea," she said, striking a match and lighting the lamp under the kettle at his elbow.
"Thanks, no," he said with an effort.
"Yes, you shall have some," she insisted, smiling in her gay little friendly way. "Come, Mr. Cleland, you are man of the world enough to waive formality. I'm going to sit here and make tea and talk to you. Look at me! Wouldn't you like to be friends with me? Most men would."
He looked up, and his slightly drawn features relaxed.
"Yes," he said with a smile, "of course I would."
"That's very human of you," she laughed. "Shall we talk about Steve? What did you think of that cablegram? Did you ever hear of such a crazy thing?"
He flushed with anger but said nothing. The girl looked at him intently over the steaming kettle, then went on measuring out tea.
"Shall I tell you about it, or would you rather that Steve told you?" she asked carelessly, busy with her preparations.
"She is actually married to—Grismer—then?"