WHEN Tom went in Clare was standing by the stove in her absurd skirt, busily frying potatoes. The table was set, after a fashion, for two. She glanced over her shoulder, smiling but wary.
"Hello!" she said. "I thought maybe a little food wouldn't go so bad."
He was speechless with disappointment and anger. He came inside and closed the door before he could trust his voice to speak to her.
"What brought you here?"
"You eat something and you'll feel better. Anyhow, you needn't worry. I'm going back tonight."
"I'll tell the world you are," he said grimly. He hung his hat on its nail, glanced into the bedroom and saw Clare's hat and coat there, and limping inside brought them out and closed the door.
"What's the big idea?" he asked disagreeably. "Trying to make trouble for me?"
"That's all the thanks I get for cooking you a decent meal, is it?"
He still held her hat and coat. She had a terrified moment when she thought he was going to force her to go at once, but now he put them down slowly.
"You're liable to get talked about, doing things like this," he said, less unpleasantly. "And the sooner you've eaten and run the better. It looks like rain outside."
She put the supper on the table while he watched her. He was still suspicious and angry, but after all his own conscience was not too clear concerning her. If this made her happy
"I'm not joking. It's going to rain."
She was dishing up the supper, practical, competent. She
