"I've stayed too long! Grandfather told me I ought never to come and
see you--"
"_What!_"
"He said I bothered you."
"You don't bother me," she protested; "I mean, when you talk about
your play you don't bother me. But to-night--"
"Of course," said Sam simply, and took himself off after one or two
directions about the bird.
When the front door closed behind him she went back to her seat by the
lamp, and took up her novel; but her eyes did not see the printed
page. Suddenly she threw the book down on the table. It was impossible
to read; Sam's talk had disturbed her to the point of sharp
discomfort. What did old Mr. Wright mean by "knowing cakes and ale"?
And his leer yesterday had been an offence! Why had he looked at her
like that? Did he--? Was it possible--! She wished she had spoken to
Lloyd about it. But no; it couldn't be; it was only his queer way; he
was half crazy, she believed. And it would do no good to speak to
Lloyd. The one thing she must not do, was to let any annoyance of hers
annoy him. Yet below her discomfort at Sam's sentimentality and his
grandfather's strange manner lay a deeper discomfort--a disturbance at
the very centres of her life.... _She was afraid._
She had been afraid for a long time. Even before she came to Old
Chester she was a little afraid, but in Old Chester the fear was
intensified by the consciousness of having made a mistake in coming.
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