I laughed—a little nervous laugh. I was stupidly nervous that night with the squire. "I think we should be very silly if we didn't say whatever came into our heads," said I. "I don't think I like people who don't say what they think. Although, of course, it is much more difficult for me to say things to you than for you to say them to me."
"Why?" asked he.
"Well, of course, because you're so much older," answered I.
He was silent. For a moment the high spirits that I had so specially noticed in him seemed to desert him.
"Well, what do you want to say to me that's disagreeable?" said he presently, with a little laugh.
"Oh, nothing disagreeable," declared I. "It's about your nephew, Captain Forrester."
"Oh!" said he.
His expression changed. It was as though I had not said what he had expected me to say. But his brow clouded yet more, only it was more with anger than sadness—the same look of anger that he had worn the other afternoon. He certainly was a very hot-tempered man.
"I don't think you are fair to him," said I, boldly.