Then Ravenslee turned to find Hermione sunk down beside the table, her
burning face hidden between her arms, her betraying eyes fast shut.
"You are tired," he said gently, "that damned--er--I should say Mr.
Flowers and--other unpleasant things have upset you, haven't they?"
Hermione made a motion of assent, and Ravenslee continued, softer than
before:
"I wanted you to make up your mind to come away to-night, but--I can't
ask you now, can I? It--it wouldn't be--er--the thing, would it?"
Hermione didn't answer or lift her head and, stooping above her, he saw
how she was trembling; but her eyes were still fast shut.
"You--you're not afraid--of me, are you, Hermione?"
"No."
"And you're not--crying, are you?"
"No."
"Then I'd--better go, hadn't I? To Mrs. Trapes and supper--stewed beef,
I think, with--er--carrots and onions--"
Her head was still bowed, and his tone was so light, his voice so lazy,
how was she to know that his hands were quivering or see how the passion
of his yearning was shaking him, fighting for utterance against his
iron will? How was she to know anything of all this until, swiftly,
lightly, he stooped and kissed the shining glory of her hair? In a while
she raised her head, but then--she was alone.
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