"Because"—in a very low whisper—"you are so seldom good to me."
"Am I? You will never know how hard I try to be. But"—taking her hand in his—"my efforts are always vain." He glances sorrowfully at the little hand he holds, and then at the pretty face beneath the velvet hat so near him. Lilian does not return his glance: her eyes are lowered, her other hand is straying nervously over the tiger-skin that covers her knees; they have forgotten all about the cold, the dreary night, everything; for a full half mile they drive on thus silently, her hand resting unresistingly in his; after which he again breaks the quiet that exists between them.
"Did you mean what you said a little time ago about Chetwoode not being your home?"
"I suppose so," in a rather changed and far softer tone. "Yes. What claim have I on Chetwoode?"
"But your tone implied that if even you had a claim it would be distasteful to you."
"Did it?"
"Don't you know it did?"
"Well, perhaps I didn't mean quite that. Did you mean all you said this morning?"
"Not all, I suppose."
"How much of it, then?"