"H'm!… Suppose you mind your own business," he said, in his gruff, granite way—not rudely nor offensively. "How's his wife? How are they getting along?"
Hilda shook her head. "They're queer, dad. Somehow I don't believe things are working out the way they should. I can't understand HER."
"Squabbling?"
"Never…. Bonbright's so gentle with her. He has a sort of wistful way with him as soon as she comes near. It makes me want to cry. Somehow he reminds me of a fine, affectionate dog watching a master who doesn't give back any affection. You know."
"Doesn't she?"
"Give back affection?… That's just it. I don't know. I've been there and seen him come home. She acts queerly. As soon as she hears him coming up the stairs she seems to shut up. It's as if she turned out the lights…. Where the ordinary girl would be running to kiss him and make a fuss over him she—doesn't do anything…. And she keeps watching him. And there's something in her eyes like—well, like she was blaming herself for something, and was sorry for him. … She seems, when she's with him, as if she were trying to make up to him for something—and didn't know how."
"Readjustment," Lightener grunted. "They jumped into the thing kerplunk. Queer start-off."
"I don't know…. She's a dear—and he's a dear…. It isn't like anything I've ever seen. It's something peculiar."
"Must be his fault. I told him—"
"It isn't his fault." Hilda spoke with certainty. "If you could see him you'd know it. His manner toward her—why, dad, I never saw a man so sweet and gentle and patient."