"Your eyes are red," he told her gently.
She looked up at him with resentment, and suddenly the tears came again. Kettering bit his lip hard. He did not speak for some time.
"I've got a headache," Christine said at last with an effort. "I—oh,
I know it's silly. Don't laugh at me."
"I'm not laughing." His voice dragged a little; he kept his eyes steadily before him.
"I thought perhaps something had happened—that you had had bad news," he said presently. "If—if there is anything I can do to help you, you know—you know I——"
"There isn't anything the matter," she interrupted with a rush. She was terrified lest he should guess that her tears were because of Jimmy; she had a horror nowadays that everyone would know that she cared for a man who cared nothing for her; she brushed the tears away determinedly; she set herself to talk and smile.
They had tea at Heston, in the little square parlour of a country inn where the floor was only polished boards, and where long wooden trestles ran on two sides of the room.
"It looks rather thick," Kettering said ruefully, standing looking down at the plate of bread and butter. "I hope you don't mind; this is the best place in the village."
Christine laughed.
"It's like what we used to have at school, and I'm hungry."