Perhaps young Atkins knew this, for, at any rate there was a look of determination about him as he walked into the drawing-room, where Marie was pretending to read and trying to prevent herself from writing to Chris.
A moment ago she had been feeling desperately lonely, and longing for someone to come in, but a queer sort of fear came to her as she looked into young Atkins' eyes.
He was rather pale, and this afternoon the boyishness seemed to have been wiped out of his face by an older, graver look.
"Won't you have some tea?" she asked him. "I've had mine, but we will soon get some more for you."
No, he would not have tea. He sat down only to get up again immediately and walk restlessly about the room.
Marie watched him nervously.
"Shall we go for a walk?" she asked with sudden inspiration. "I have not been out all day. Do let us go for a walk."
He hardly seemed to hear. He had taken up a cigarette case belonging to Chris, and was opening and shutting it with nervous aimlessness.
Suddenly he asked abruptly:
"When is Chris coming home?"