Dora felt her hands grow suddenly cold and damp. She was not afraid of him exactly, but there was some physical shrinking from him that was rather like fear.
“I don’t see the obligation,” she said.
“Perhaps not. It is sufficient that I do. Now let’s have done. We spoke on the same subject, your attitude to my father, in Venice. Don’t let us speak of it again!”
“You say your say, and I am to make no reply. Is that it?” she asked.
“Yes; that is it. I know I am right. Come, Dora.” But the appeal had no effect, and for the moment she did not know how to apply Uncle Alf’s wise counsels.
“And if I know you are wrong?” she asked. “If I tell you that you don’t understand?”
“It will make no difference. Look here: the governor has done lots for you. You’ve never expressed a wish but what he hasn’t gratified.”
“Then ask him if he is satisfied with my attitude toward him,” said Dora. “See what he says. Tell him that Uncle Alfred has laughed at him, and I laughed too. Tell him all.”
“I wouldn’t hurt him like that,” said Claude.
Dora walked to the window and back again. She felt helpless in a situation she believed to be trivial. But she could not laugh it off: she could think of no light reply that would act as a dissolvent to it. And if she could find no light reply, only a serious answer or silence was possible. She chose the latter. If more words were to be said, she wished that Claude should have the responsibility of them. Eventually he took it.