“Why do you look at me?” she asked suddenly.
“I don't know, my dear,” he began, slowly and laboriously as was his wont. “I was thinkin' how nice you looked—jest now—much better you know—but somehow”—he was taking long whiffs at his pipe, as usual, between each word, while she stood patiently waiting for him to finish—“somehow, you alter so, my dear—you're quite pale again all of a minute.”
She stood listening to him, noticing against her will the more than suspicion of cockney accent and the thick drawl with which the words were uttered.
His eyes sought her face piteously. She noticed that too, and stood before him torn by conflicting emotions, pity and disgust struggling in a hand-to-hand fight within her.
“Mr. Broomhurst and I are going down by the well to sit; it's cooler there. Won't you come?” she said at last gently.
He did not reply for a moment, then he turned his head aside sharply for him.
“No, my dear, thank you; I'm comfortable enough here,” he returned huskily.
She stood over him, hesitating a second, then moved abruptly to the table, from which she took a book.
He had risen from his seat by the time she turned to go out, and he intercepted her timorously.
“Kathie, give me a kiss before you go,” he whispered hoarsely. “I—I don't often bother you.”