“Yes. I understand,” he said, and his voice came half-strangled, as though he fought some obstruction in his throat. “Square told me.” She stopped at the table. “Have you been having tea? I thought Maggie was here.” “She has gone out with Elsie. Milly went upstairs to Dolly. I don’t know where the others are.” Again curiously something in his voice pierced her. It had a deadened quality—was it utter weariness—or smothered pain? “Have you had tea?” she asked. His hand wrenched at the door-handle. The door opened and a drift of rain blew in. But still he paused. “I haven’t had mine,” said Frances. He turned almost with violence and the door shut behind him. “Why haven’t you had yours? I thought Elsie brought it to you. I told her to.” He looked at her, heavily scowling, for a moment, then again averted his eyes. “Don’t be angry!” she said gently. “She did bring it, but I didn’t stay to drink it because your mother said the doctor was here. Do you mind if I have some now?” She looked round the table that had been cleared, then turned to the fire. “The kettle is quite hot. It will soon boil.” He came back into the room. There was something about him at that moment upon which she could not look. He went to the dresser, and she heard the clatter of cups and saucers. She knew he was laying the table behind her, but she remained with her face to the fire. Suddenly he was beside her. He took up the simmering kettle and forced it down into the heart of the fire, keeping his hand upon it. “You will burn yourself!” she said. He answered nothing, merely stood doggedly bent over the glow till the kettle spluttered and boiled. Then he lifted it, and turned back to the table. Frances turned also. Mutely she watched him pour water into the old metal tea-pot. The haggardness of his face, the grim endurance of his set jaw, struck her afresh. She wondered if he were ill. He set down the kettle and drew up the horse-hair chair with the wooden arms that she so well remembered. “Sit down!” he said. She obeyed him, finding no words. He cut a slice from a loaf and began to toast it, Roger pressing closely against his gaitered legs. Very suddenly his voice came back to her again, hollow, strained, oddly vibrant. “I should like you to know one thing. Though you have come back here against my will, you have—nothing to fear. I recognize it was—an act of—charity—and, so far as I am concerned, you are safe. I will never get in your way.” “Thank you,” Frances said quietly. “I am not afraid of that.” He made a jerky movement, but instantly checked himself, and turning the bread upon the fork, maintained his silence. She wondered what was passing behind that tensely restrained front, what torment was at work within him to produce the anguish of suffering which she sensed rather than saw. But he gave her no clue of any sort. He remained bent and silent till his task was finished.