Then the expression was gone.
"How do you mean?" she said, still looking into the glass. "What do you
mean, Peter? I haven't noticed anything different."
"Oh yes, you have. You know that--ever since Stephen died and before that
really--you've avoided me. You'd rather be without me than with me. You've
all thought me selfish and glum and so I suppose I was. But I missed--the
kid--a lot." Again Peter felt her hand tremble. He pressed it. Then he went
on, leaning more toward her now and putting an arm out to touch her dress.
"Clare--it's been like a fog all these weeks--we've never had it out, we've
never talked about it, but you've been disappointed in me. You thought I
was going to write great books and I haven't--and then your mother--and
I--don't get on. And then I suppose I'm stupid in society--I can't talk a
lot to any one who comes along as all you people can. I've been brought up
differently and--and--I know you don't like to think about that either, and
so I'll never bring my old friends into the house and I'll see that I'm not
such a gawk at your parties--"
He paused for a moment; she was looking down now and he couldn't see her
eyes. He bent forward more closely--his arm caught her waist--his hand
crushed hers--
She tried desperately to pull herself together to say something--
"No--there's nothing.
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