"What about me?"
"I'm never horrid to you," said Alwynne with compunction. "That's what's so beastly of me."
"Well, upon my word!" cried Clare blankly.
"Oh, you know what I mean." Alwynne jumbled her words. "I always want to be nice to you. It's perfectly easy. And then I go home to Elsbeth, the darling, and am grumpy and snappy, and show her all the hateful side of me. Heaven knows why! Only yesterday she said, 'You wouldn't speak to Clare Hartill like that,' in her dear, hurt voice. I felt such a brute."
A little smile hovered at the corners of Clare's mouth.
"I was always so sorry," said Clare smoothly, "that you couldn't spend Christmas Day with me last year."
Alwynne wrinkled her forehead.
"What's that got to do——?"
Clare caught her up.
"With your secret griefs? Nothing whatever! You're quite right. But what are they, Alwynne? Who's been worrying you? Have you got too much to do?"