business. However, I don't think they've smelt any rats."
Cicely smiled faintly and then her eyes fell and she answered nothing. Their only other conversation during dinner consisted in his expostulations on her small appetite and her low-voiced protests that she wasn't hungry. But when it was safely over, he pushed back his chair, crossed his knees, and began:
"Now, Louisa, I'm going to take an uncle's privilege of lighting my pipe before I begin to talk, if you don't mind."
He lit his pipe, and then suddenly dropping the rôle of uncle altogether, said gently:
"I don't want to press you with any questions that you don't want to answer, but if you need a friend of any sort, size, or description, here I am." He paused for a moment and then asked still more gently: "Are you afraid of me?"
For the first time she let her long-lashed eyes rest full on his face and in her low voice, she answered:
"Partly afraid."
"And partly what else?"
"Partly puzzled—and partly ashamed."
"Ashamed!" he exclaimed with a note of indignant protest. "Ashamed of what?"
"The exhibition I've made of myself," she said, her voice still very low.
"Well," he smiled, "that's a matter of opinion. But why are you afraid?"
"Oh," she exclaimed. "You know of course!"
