and with a secretary to jump at his call. A man who could stay in bed until noon!
She spoke out of her thoughts. "If I had a house like this," she said, "I would think it was all I wanted in the world. Do you know that my mother worked in the fields before she died?"
"Elizabeth?"
"Yes. The people out there say that hard work killed her."
"Hard work?"
"Yes. She didn't have any servants. She got up before daylight on winter mornings, and built the fire, and on cold nights she'd take a lantern and go out to the barn and feed the stock."
"And she did this rather than stay with me?"
"She wouldn't stay where she wasn't wanted."
"I did want her."
With breath almost suspended, she looked up at him. "You mean—?"
"Yes—letting her go was—horrible—"
"But you loved somebody else."
"She told you that? Well, I did. I'm afraid I can't make you understand. I shan't try. I don't want to think about it." Again that high note, of irritation.
She stood up, reached for her little hat, pulled it down over her smoky curls, and picked up her bag. "I'm sorry I came," she said. "I didn't know you didn't want to think about her. I think about her all the time."
He put out his hand. "You're not going."
He lifted the hat from her head and set it beyond her reach on the mantel.
