you conceive—?" And then as her challenge struck deeper in, deeper down than it had yet reached and with the effect of a rush of the blood to his face, "It was for you, it was for you!" she again broke out—"and for what or whom else could it have been?"
He saw things to a tune now that made him answer straight: "I thought at one time it might be for Bill Frankle."
"Yes—that was the way you treated me," Miss Cookham as plainly replied.
But he let this pass; his thought had already got away from it. "What good then—its having been for me—has that ever done me?"
"Doesn't it do you any good now?" his friend returned. To which she added, with another dim play of her tormented brightness, before he could speak: "But if you won't even have your tea—!"
He had in fact touched nothing, and if he could have explained, would have pleaded very veraciously that his appetite, keen when he came in, had somehow suddenly failed. It was beyond eating or drinking, what she seemed to want him to take from her. So if he looked, before him, over the array, it was to say, very grave and graceless: "Am I to understand that you offer to repay me?"
"I offer to repay you with interest, Herbert Dodd"—and her emphasis of the great word was wonderful.
It held him in his place a minute, and held his eyes
