Jane went to the pantry and returned with two thick slices of “war cake” and a tumbler of creamy milk.
“This is the sort of cake you liked so much the other day,” she said, putting it upon the table. “It’s somethin’ amazin’ how it keeps moist. I s’pose it’s the apple sauce in it.”
She watched him while he broke it listlessly 143 into fragments. It was obvious that he was not hungry.
“You’re tired, Martin,” she murmured at last, in a gentle tone.
“I guess I am a little.”
“The trip to the fair was a hard one, I’m afraid.”
Again the man found comfort in her voice.
“Oh, no; not particularly hard,” he answered with gruff kindness, “but the train was close an’ dusty.”
There was a quality in the tone that caused Jane to ponder. Furtively she studied the bowed head, the twitching fingers, the contracted brow; nor did the jaded, disheartened droop of the mouth escape her. She could not recall ever having seen Martin like this before.
Something must be weighing on his mind, something that had not been there when he had left home in the morning and had not been there when he returned. The shadow, whatever it was, had fallen since, and she felt it had some connection with the happenings of the evening. This unprecedented forbearance of his was a part of it. Of that she was sure. What did it portend? Was he angry? Or had Lucy Webster dropped some remark that 144 had shown him the folly and uselessness of his resentment? Jane would have given a great deal to know just what had occurred on that walk in the rain. Perhaps Lucy had openly attacked Martin’s codes and forced a quarrel. She was fearless enough to do so; or perhaps she had simply reproached him and set him thinking.