I shall say what they have done to me----"
He had forgotten, if he had ever fully realized, that there were
strangers about him. He shook his fist and shouted, whilst the slow,
hopeless tears rolled down the sunken yellow cheeks onto the dirty
manuscript.
They stared at him in consternation, all but Francey, who uncurled
herself negligently and slid from the sofa.
"It's past my tea-time," she announced, "and I want my tea."
It was as though she had neither seen nor cared. Christine turned her
faded, groping eyes thankfully in her direction.
"Of course, my dear. Robert--please----"
"No," he said; "we don't have tea, Francey."
"But, Robert, at least when we have guests----"
"Or guests," he added, with a set, white face.
Cosgrave laughed. He made a comic grimace. He seemed utterly
irrepressible and irresponsible, like a colt let out for the first time
in a wide field.
"You don't know this fellow like I do, Miss Wilmot. A nasty Spartan.
But if you'll put a shilling in the gas meter we'll get cakes and a
quarter of tea. He doesn't need to have any if he doesn't want it, but
he can't grudge us a corner of table and half a chair each. Miss
Christine's on our side, aren't you, Miss Christine? And oh, Connie,
there's a pastrycook's round the corner where they make jam-puffs like
they did when I was a kid----"
"I'll put the kettle on," Francey said, nodding to him.
She passed close to Robert. She even gave him a quick, friendly touch.
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