Rossiter had gone
upstairs he demanded an answer.
"Look here, Cards, what have I done? You profess to be a friend of mine.
Tell me what crime I've committed?"
Cards' eyes had been laughing. Suddenly he was serious. His dark, clean-cut
face was stern, almost accusing.
"Profess, Peter? I hope you don't doubt it?"
"No, of course not. You know you're the best friend I've got. Tell me--what
have I done?"
"Done?"
"Yes--you and Clare and her mother--all of you keep me at arms'
length--why?"
"Do you really want a straight talking?"
"Of course."
"Well, I can only speak for myself--but--to tell the truth, old boy--I
think you've been rather hard on poor little Clare."
For the first time since his marriage Peter resented Cards' words. "Poor
little Clare"--wasn't that a little too intimate?
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice a little harder.
"Well--I don't think you understand her, Peter."
"Explain."
"She's a happy, merry person if ever there was one in this world. She wants
all the happiness you can give her--"
"Well?"
"Well, you don't seem to see that. Of course young Stephen's death--"
"Let's leave that--" Peter's voice was harder again.
"Oh, all right--just as you please. But most men would have seen what a
shock it must be to a girl, so young, who knew so little about the cruelty
of life.
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