Aren't you a little pale

　　"Aren't you a little pale, my dear? Not overworking?
　　Mr. Harney tells me you and Mamie are giving thelibrary a thorough overhauling." He was always carefulto remember his parishioners' Christian names, and atthe right moment he bent his benignant spectacles onthe Targatt girl.
　　Then he turned to Charity. "Don't take things hard, mydear,replica mont blanc pens; don't take things hard. Come down and see Mrs.
　　Miles and me some day at Hepburn," he said, pressingher hand and waving a farewell to Mamie Targatt. Hewent out of the library, and Harney followed him.
　　Charity thought she detected a look of constraint inHarney's eyes. She fancied he did not want to be alonewith her; and with a sudden pang she wondered if herepented the tender things he had said to her the nightbefore. His words had been more fraternal than lover-like; but she had lost their exact sense in thecaressing warmth of his voice. He had made her feelthat the fact of her being a waif from the Mountain wasonly another reason for holding her close and soothingher with consolatory murmurs,knockoff handbags; and when the drive wasover, and she got out of the buggy, tired, cold, andaching with emotion, she stepped as if the ground werea sunlit wave and she the spray on its crest.
　　Why, then, had his manner suddenly changed, and why didhe leave the library with Mr. Miles? Her restlessimagination fastened on the name of Annabel Balch: fromthe moment it had been mentioned she fancied thatHarney's expression had altered. Annabel Balch at agarden-party at Springfield, looking "extremelyhandsome"...perhaps Mr. Miles had seen her there at thevery moment when Charity and Harney were sitting in theHyatts' hovel, between a drunkard and a half-witted oldwoman! Charity did not know exactly what a garden-partywas, but her glimpse of the flower-edged lawns ofNettleton helped her to visualize the scene, andenvious recollections of the "old things" which MissBalch avowedly "wore out" when she came to North Dormermade it only too easy to picture her in her splendour.
　　Charity understood what associations the name musthave called up, and felt the uselessness of strugglingagainst the unseen influences in Harney's life.
　　When she came down from her room for supper he was notthere; and while she waited in the porch she recalledthe tone in which Mr. Royall had commented the daybefore on their early start. Mr. Royall sat at herside,link, his chair tilted back, his broad black boots withside-elastics resting against the lower bar of therailings. His rumpled grey hair stood up above hisforehead like the crest of an angry bird, and theleather-brown of his veined cheeks was blotched withred. Charity knew that those red spots were the signsof a coming explosion.
　　Suddenly he said: "Where's supper,shox torch 2? Has Verena Marshslipped up again on her soda-biscuits?"Charity threw a startled glance at him. "I presumeshe's waiting for Mr. Harney.""Mr. Harney, is she? She'd better dish up, then. Heain't coming." He stood up, walked to the door, andcalled out, in the pitch necessary to penetrate the oldwoman's tympanum: "Get along with the supper, Verena."Charity was trembling with apprehension. Somethinghad happened--she was sure of it now--and Mr. Royallknew what it was. But not for the world would she havegratified him by showing her anxiety. She took herusual place, and he seated himself opposite, and pouredout a strong cup of tea before passing her the tea-pot.