“How?”
“Well, your clothes——”
Her face fell.
“Oh, Justin, don’t you like them?”
“They’re rather bright.”
“Oh!”
He did not volunteer anything.
“What else, Justin?”
“Oh, how do I know?” He was impatient. “It’s not my business. But I hate scent and chatter and high heels and things that jingle. And you come down to dinner with your hair fussed out like an actress. But it’s all right, I expect.”
“I see.” She managed to smile at him before she swished across to the window, with the little un-English swing of her body that was another of her ways that vaguely irritated him. He made an impatient movement. Of course he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but why on earth did she worry him?