"My dear boy, you know I've no objection, as you call it, to anything at all you do. You are a man. I'm only your guest. I've no right to object. But I am naturally interested. Of course, though, if you'd rather not tell me what Mr. Boyd said"—she paused, "we'll talk of something else."
"No we won't," cried Hubert, with a sudden passion. "I'm sick to death of all this constant friction."
"Friction!" and she raised her eyebrows ever so slightly. Otherwise her sad face remained expressionless, but her hands clasped each other tensely under an old-fashioned shawl.
"Yes, friction. That's the only word. You know, Ruth, I don't want to be a brute. You know what pals we were as kids, what pals we still are" (he forced the words out), "and that's why I intend to have it out. It isn't good enough. You know what a row we had over dinner. That's why I asked Boyd along. How do you expect a man to write when he's just had a row that's brought his soul red-hot into his throat? And you weren't very cheery company! So naturally I asked Boyd in. I often do that or go out myself or else pretend to work, because I simply can't endure your company a moment longer."
And now his sister leapt up to her feet. When she came to life it was always sudden.
"Hubert!" she cried in tearful reproach. She only called him Hubert at such moments.
He signalled her down without any ceremony.
"For goodness' sake," he said, and it was nearly stronger, "don't let's have a row." He took a moment to calm himself and then said levelly, "Look here, old girl, I want to thrash this matter out once and for all. It's no use killing love in this world, is it? It's rare enough, God knows. We've been such good pals, you and I, and now we are—like this." He pointed at her, and she fell back dully on her chair.
"We don't mean it really," she said, fumbling for her handkerchief.
Hubert spoke seriously. "We do, though. Anyhow, we should in time. It's just like other habits. It grows. It grows quickly, too. We never used to fight at all, you know."