“What does that matter? Until you go, then. Until you go. 'Tisn't much I'm asking, and—you don't know how good I can cook.” She had put an arm round his neck and was drawing his head down.
“Until—I—go, then.”
“Torp,” said Dick, across the landing. He could hardly steady his voice.
“Come here a minute, old man. I'm in trouble”—
“Heaven send he'll listen to me!” There was something very like an oath from Bessie's lips. She was afraid of Dick, and disappeared down the staircase in panic, but it seemed an age before Torpenhow entered the studio. He went to the mantelpiece, buried his head on his arms, and groaned like a wounded bull.
“What the devil right have you to interfere?” he said, at last.
“Who's interfering with which? Your own sense told you long ago you couldn't be such a fool. It was a tough rack, St. Anthony, but you're all right now.”
“I oughtn't to have seen her moving about these rooms as if they belonged to her. That's what upset me. It gives a lonely man a sort of hankering, doesn't it?” said Torpenhow, piteously.
“Now you talk sense. It does. But, since you aren't in a condition to discuss the disadvantages of double housekeeping, do you know what you're going to do?”
“I don't. I wish I did.”