"At you. Pretending to be violent, good-tempered. Of course you're neither. What you think is self-control is merely sulkiness."
His eyes flashed.
"What do you want?" he said, in an undertone.
"Why, I want you to be sensible and jolly; like you were that day at Richmond."
"How can I be like I was that day at Richmond? It was a lovely day; we were in the country; it was our escapade. It was an exceptional case."
"Oh dear! Then will you only be like that as an exceptional case?"
"My dear child, you don't understand. When a man has—has work to do," he said rather hesitatingly.
She laughed again.
"Work! It must be frightfully important work if you throw it on the floor from temper."
He bore this well, and answered, picking up the papers, "Important or not, it's what I'm here for—it's what your father pays me for. How on earth he can think I'm the slightest use to him I can't imagine."