Roger rose at once.
"I must go before they come," he said.
But she laid her hand upon his arm. "No," she said, "you are not to go. You are never going to run away from the world again. Set aside the screen, please—and stay."
Porter, picked up on the way, came in with the others, to behold that glowing corner, and those two together.
With his red crest flaming, he advanced upon them.
"Somebody said 'tea.' May I have some, Mary?"
"When the kettle boils." She had risen, and was holding out her hand to him.
As the two men shook hands, Porter was conscious of some subtle change in Roger. What had come over the man—had he dared to make love to Mary?
And Mary? He looked at her.
She was serenely filling her tea ball. She had lighted the lamp beneath her kettle, and the blue flame seemed to cast her still further back among the shadows of her corner.