drawn; the hearth swept; a tabby cat purred on the rug; a book lay open on the table: all breathed of the sober comfort of home. She sat down on the other side of the hearth and looked at him. Neither spoke. It was an awkward moment.
Rosamund broke the silence.
“It is very friendly of you to come and see me,” she said. “It is very lonely for me now. Constance has gone back to London.”
“She has gone back to her teaching?”
“Yes; I wanted her to stay, but”
“I’ve heard from Stephen. He is very wretched; he seems to think it is his fault.”
“Poor, dear boy!” She spoke musingly. “Of course it wasn’t his fault. It all seems like a dream, to have been so rich for a little while, and to have done nothing with it except,” she added with a laugh and a glance at her fur-trimmed dress, “to buy a most extravagant number of white dresses. How awfully tired you look, Andrew! Go and have a wash—the spare room’s the first door at the top of the stairs—and I’ll get you some supper.”
When he came down again, she had laid a cloth on the table and was setting out silver and glass.
