He unlocked the door and preceded them into the warm but bare little room. The fire burned low and red in the grate. The table was set with two plates and two glasses, on a proper white tablecloth for once. Hilda shook her hair and looked round the bare, cheerless room. Then she summoned her courage and looked at the man.
He was moderately tall, and thin, and she thought him good-looking. He kept a quiet distance of his own, and seemed absolutely unwilling to speak.
“Do sit down, Hilda,” said Connie.
“Do!” he said. “Can I make you tea or anything, or will you drink a glass of beer? It’s moderately cool.”
“Beer!” said Connie.
“Beer for me, please!” said Hilda, with a mock sort of shyness. He looked at her and blinked.
He took a blue jug and tramped to the scullery. When he came back with the beer, his face had changed again.
Connie sat down by the door, and Hilda sat in his seat, with the back to the wall, against the window corner.
“That is his chair,” said Connie softly. And Hilda rose as if it had burnt her.
“Sit yer still, sit yer still! Ta’e ony cheer as yo’n a mind to, none of us is th’ big bear,” he said, with complete equanimity.
And he brought Hilda a glass, and poured her beer first from the blue jug.