"Come, let me pour it for you." He took the odd little bottle and poured her glass as full as his own.
"If Magon were only here--he'd like some, I know," she said, vaguely struggling with a sense of impropriety, though why, she did not know; for, on the surface, this was only dutiful hospitality to a distinguished guest.

The impropriety probably lay in the sensations roused by this visit and this visitor.

"I intended--" "Oh, we must try to get along without monsieur," he said, with a little cough; "he's a busy gentleman." The rather rude and flippant sentiment seemed hardly in keeping with the fatal token of his disease.
"Of course, he's far away out there in the field, mowing," she said, as if in apology for something or other.

"Yes, he's ever so far away," was his reply, as he turned half lazily to the open doorway.
Neither spoke for a moment.

The eyes of both were on the distant harvest-fields.