“I don’t think you’d say that if you knew how nice and understanding she was. I—I wish I could explain better.”
Morris felt the impotence of his lame and stammering words before the deep hostility, which he recognized, although he was at a loss to account for it, in Rosamund’s silence.
“I haven’t ever told anyone,” she said at last, stammering a little, “but I’ve always resented being told that Cousin Bertha has done everything for us and is so fond of us. Of course it’s quite true in a way, but she’s never made me happy—or Francie either.”
If Morris thought that the fault lay more on Rosamund’s side than on her guardian’s, he would not say so, but his too expressive face betrayed him to Rosamund’s quick perceptions.
“You think I’m ungrateful—but I do recognize all the material things she’s done for us.”
Morris thought her explanation very ungracious, and then chid himself half-heartedly for criticizing his goddess.
“She’s done more than material things, hasn’t she?” he reminded her gently. “It’s not as though Porthlew had been an alien atmosphere. She cares about all the things that matter—books and music and friendship and other things too. That’s what makes her so wonderful, I think—that she should have that side to her, as well as the splendid practical capable side that everyone can see and admire.”
Rosamund looked at him, with a face that seemed to have grown weary.
“Yes, of course,” she said slowly.
Morris felt, unreasonably, as though he had been weighed and found wanting, in the balance of that baffled, tired gaze of hers. He reflected with bewilderment that although she had looked at him like a child when she had spoken defiantly and angrily of her guardian, she now looked very much older, and more unhappy.