“Do you live here quite alone?” she asked.
“Quite alone, your Ladyship.”
“But your mother … ?”
“She lives in her own cottage in the village.”
“With the child?” asked Connie.
“With the child!”
And his plain, rather worn face took on an indefinable look of derision. It was a face that changed all the time, baffling.
“No,” he said, seeing Connie stand at a loss, “my mother comes and cleans up for me on Saturdays; I do the rest myself.”
Again Connie looked at him. His eyes were smiling again, a little mockingly, but warm and blue, and somehow kind. She wondered at him. He was in trousers and flannel shirt and a grey tie, his hair soft and damp, his face rather pale and worn-looking. When the eyes ceased to laugh they looked as if they had suffered a great deal, still without losing their warmth. But a pallor of isolation came over him, she was not really there for him.
She wanted to say so many things, and she said nothing. Only she looked up at him again, and remarked:
“I hope I didn’t disturb you?”
The faint smile of mockery narrowed his eyes.