'He wants me to come at half-past four,' said Bruce, looking over the letter pompously. 'Four-thirty, to the minute. I shall certainly do it. I shan't lose a minute.'
'I'm afraid you'll have to lose a few minutes,' said Edith. 'It's only ten o'clock.'
Bruce stared at her, folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket. He thought it would be a suitable punishment for her not to see it.
Obviously he was not in the best of humours. Not being sure what was wrong, Edith adopted the simple plan of asking what he meant.
'What do I mean!' exclaimed Bruce, who, when his grievances, were vague, relied on such echoes for his most cutting effects. 'You ask me what I mean? Mean, indeed!' He took some toast and repeated bitterly: 'Ah! You may well ask me what I mean!'
'May I? Well, what were the observations you didn't approve of?'
'Why … what you said. About several minutes being lost before half-past four.'
'Oh, Bruce dear, I didn't mean any harm by it.'
'Harm, indeed!' repeated Bruce. 'Harm! It isn't a question of actual harm. I don't say that you meant to injure me, nor even, perhaps, to hurt my feelings. But it's a way of speaking—a tone—that I think extremely déplacé, from you to me. Do you follow me, Edith? From you to me.'
'That's a dark saying. Well, whatever I said I take it back, if you don't like it. Will that do?'