“Lucy,” he said huskily, “I want to tell you something. Something that matters.”
“I hope it’s a lively something then,” she said; and laughed. “Papa’s been so glum to-day he’s scarcely spoken to me. Your Uncle George Amberson came to see him an hour ago and they shut themselves up in the library, and your uncle looked as glum as papa. I’d be glad if you’ll tell me a funny story, George.”
“Well, it may seem one to you,” he said bitterly, “Just to begin with: when you went away you didn’t let me know; not even a word—not a line—”
Her manner persisted in being inconsequent. “Why, no,” she said. “I just trotted off for some visits.”
“Well, at least you might have—”
“Why, no,” she said again briskly. “Don’t you remember, George? We’d had a grand quarrel, and didn’t speak to each other all the way home from a long, long drive! So, as we couldn’t play together like good children, of course it was plain that we oughtn’t to play at all.”
“Play!” he cried.
“Yes. What I mean is that we’d come to the point where it was time to quit playing—well, what we were playing.”
“At being lovers, you mean, don’t you?”
“Something like that,” she said lightly. “For us two, playing at being lovers was just the same as playing at cross-purposes. I had all the purposes, and that gave you all the crossness: things weren’t getting along at all. It was absurd!”