“Is there any brandy or whiskey in the house?”

He shook his head.

“If you want to drink—­” he began, but stopped hastily and added, “I beg your pardon.”

“Is there any tea?”

He pointed to the cupboard, but dropped his arm with a groan.  She was at his side in a moment.

“Now, listen to me.  You are not to stir or speak, but only to nod or shake your head when I ask a question.  Do you understand?”

He nodded.

“That’s right.”

She stepped to the cupboard, produced the tea and a box of matches; then, stooping down, rekindled the fire with the help of some sticks which she found in the oven, and put the kettle on the flame.  This done, she sought and found the tea-things.

“Milk?” she asked.

He nodded towards a blue jug on the mantel-shelf.

“Milk on the mantel-shelf!  That’s like a man.”

But at this point the kettle began to boil.  She filled the tea-pot, and replaced the kettle on the hob.  As she turned, she was aware of a clearer look in Mr. Fogo’s eyes.  She smiled and nodded.

“You are better.”

“Much.  I can remember it all, after a fashion.  Did I talk nonsense?”

“A little.”  She smiled again.

His eyes followed her as she moved about the kitchen.  Presently he said—­

“You are very good to me.”

“I think I am.”

“Tamsin—­”

She turned suddenly to the table, and caught up the teapot.

“Do you know,” she asked, “that tea is worthless if it stands for more than five minutes?”

She filled a cup, and gave it to him with a hand that trembled slightly.  He sipped, and scalded his lip.

“Tamsin—­”

“My name is Dearlove,” she said shortly, “and you are spilling the tea.”

There was silence for a minute or so.  Mr. Fogo stirred his tea abstractedly.  Tamsin, whose shoes were soaked, put one foot upon the fender, and bent her gaze upon the fire.

“I would give something,” observed Mr. Fogo suddenly, in desperate reverie, “to know how other people manage it.  It was moonlight when I proposed to Geraldine.  I began by squeezing her hand, if I remem—­”

He looked up, and found her regarding him with eyes ablaze.

But luckily at this moment the door opened, and Caleb appeared.  He was evidently much agitated; but at sight of Tamsin and the woeful figure in the armchair, he halted on the threshold and stared dumbly.

“I think,” said Tamsin, “you had better put your master to bed.”

“Mussy ’pon us, what’s been doin’?”

Briefly she told as much as she knew.  With each successive sentence Caleb’s mouth and eyes opened wider.

“And now,” she ended, “as Peter and Paul have been waiting for their dinner this half-hour, I will be going.  Don’t trouble to come with me; but attend to your master.  Good-morning, sir.”