Clare is gentle, bright,
happy. She has never given my husband or myself a moment's trouble, but
that is because we understood her nature. We knew that she loved people
about her to be happy--she flourished in the sun, she drooped under the
clouds... under the clouds" Mrs. Rossiter repeated again softly, as she
searched, with care, for her next words.
Irritation was rising within Peter. Why should it be concluded so
inevitably that the fault was all on Peter's side and not at all on
Clare's--after all, there were reasons... but he pulled himself up. He
had behaved like a beast.
"I've tried very hard--" he began.
"Clouds--" said Mrs. Rossiter. "And you, Peter, are at times--I have
seen it myself and I know that it is apparent to others--inclined to be
morose--gloomy, a little gloomy--" Her fingers tapped the silk of her
dress. "Dear Clare, considering what her own life has been, shrinks, I must
confess it seems to me quite naturally, from any reminder of what your
own earlier circumstances have been. Look at it, Peter, for an instant
from the outside and you will see, at once, I am sure, what it must have
been to her, yesterday, to come into her nursery, to find tables, chairs
overturned, strange men shouting and flinging poor little Stephen towards
the ceiling--some talk about Cornwall--really, Peter, I think you can
understand.
Pages:
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527