“I don’t know,” answered Riversley, stolid as ever. “That’s what worries me. I can’t put a name to it. But there’s something wrong. Vi’s altered, and it isn’t for the better.”
“Altered?”
“Well, she looks at things differently—she’s lost—oh, I don’t know.”
“My dear fellow, can’t you be a little more explicit?”
“No. I’m a stupid sort of a fellow, or perhaps I’d understand better what’s wrong. The only thing definite that I can lay hold of is, that she gets sudden spasms of hatred, and it’s—well, it’s like looking into a red-hot hell. I don’t know how else to describe it. She always had a bit of a temper, you know, but this is different. And”—his voice dropped a little and lost its steadiness for a moment—“the animals won’t go near her sometimes.”
There was a queer strange silence for a minute across which the laughter outside broke like a jangling wire.
“I expect she’s treated them unjustly,” said North, conscious even as he spoke of the futility of his reason.
“Dogs never resent where they care,” said Riversley briefly. “It’s not that. They—they are afraid of her for some reason, and it’s horribly uncanny sometimes. I thought perhaps if she came down here without me, had a rest from me you know, it would help her a bit.”
North nodded. “I think you are wise. I hope it’s only a passing phase. She’s been through a stiff time, and we are none of us yet quite normal, I fancy.”
“It isn’t as if she’d care for me,” Riversley went on steadily. “I took my risk, and I’d take it again, and I’m not blaming her, mind you. And I’m only telling you about it because she seems to hang on to you, and you’ll be able to help her better if you know.”